It's An Art
by Fearful Little Thing
Summary: AU Puck/Kurt. Boxed into a corner by a nasty debt, con artists Kurt and Puck need to both lay low and somehow come up with big money. The one place nobody is going to look for them? Lima, Ohio. Home of Kurt's older brother.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Author**: FearfulLT  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.  
Author Notes: Inspired by a prompt on the puckurt meme and dedicated to the fiendishly awesome duohatesrelena. This story will include infrequent illustrations, which you folk at ff. net don't get the links to because of how ff. net dislikes anything even remotely resembling a url.

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

* * *

"This is a stupid idea."

"Shut up."

"We're going to get caught and then you'll only have yourself to blame for another two years in state."

"Noah. Shut your trap."

"I'm just saying."

Kurt Hummel rolled his eyes. He pushed his Dior sunglasses further up his nose and readjusted his hands on the steering wheel of the big white van that at present contained his entire life in the back. One big, muscular, mohawked part of which was really beginning to shit him off. "Don't say," Kurt replied, glancing in the rearview at the man in the back, sprawled out across the seat with his feet up and his back against the window. "Don't talk to me right now. I'm not in the mood."

"You're in shit, that's what you're in."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Kurt said, knuckles turning white against the wheel, "we're both in shit. That's why we're currently driving to this shithole cow town in the first place. This, darling, is a last ditch effort to hide out long enough to get that money that _you_ owe – and so help me don't think I've forgiven you yet – to get us out of this shit."

The man in the back moved. His feet slid down from the seat and into the foot well so he could lean forward over the back seat to wrap his forearms around Kurt's neck and kiss the back of the smaller man's ear. "We'll get the money, babe. " The arms squeezed, then released and Noah Puckerman slumped back against the back seat again. "Anyway, you know I did it for you. Unless you'd rather I let ol' Daddy Camden bash your pretty face in."

"Shut. Up."

Trouble is, Kurt knew Puck was right. There hadn't been a better choice at the time and there wasn't a better choice now. If they could afford to leave the country then that would be another story, but was Puck on the no-fly list (for reasons best left undisclosed) and they hardly had enough cash to get from one side of the country to the other. Lima was a last resort, a last ditch effort at somehow scraping together enough money to satisfy MacGrady and his less than friendly debt collectors. Kurt would have preferred somewhere larger, somewhere with more potential targets, but they needed to lay low long enough to at least come up with a good faith payment.

They weren't going to be able to lay low anywhere other than a small town. Lucky for them, Kurt just so happened to have an older brother who lived in sleepy little Lima, Ohio. A town big enough to present a few promising targets while small enough to let them fall beneath the radar.

Burt Hummel was 37, thoroughly middle-class, and the majority share owner of a tyre store. He also had a tendency to believe the best in people, especially of family, something that Kurt was counting on. He lived in a one story house in a nice neighbourhood and, when Kurt had called him two days ago, he'd been thrilled by the idea of his little brother coming to stay.

Kurt hadn't given more than a passing mention to his partner. Puck generally wasn't the kind of man who inspired feelings of warmth and hospitality. In any case he wouldn't be staying at the house with Kurt. That wasn't part of their (very hastily put together, still working out the details thereof) plan.

"Pull over."

Jolted out of his musings, Kurt frowned. "What?"

"Pull over," Puck repeated, leaning forward in his seat again. "There's a rest area up ahead."

"We're an hour away from Lima."

"And it's a fucking rest stop, Kurt. Do I have a better chance of getting picked up at a stop or in the middle of the highway?"

Kurt sighed and flicked on the indicator. He pulled to a stop in the rest stop and shut off the engine. He turned to look over into the back of the van, where Puck was already digging around for his backpack. It was a big hiker's pack, picked for the look rather than the functionality – though that was a bonus. Puck slung one of the straps over his shoulder and leaned into the front again, this time to peck Kurt's lips with his own.

"Thanks for the ride, babe. I'll see you in town."

"Don't get arrested," Kurt advised, a parting as fond and as normal as 'goodbye'.

Puck opened the van's side door and hopped out. He looked around, gave Kurt a wave, then headed towards the tourist shop to see if he couldn't track down a lift from some helpful traveller. From here until Lima Puck was a backpacker hitch-hiking across the country. Kurt watched him go for a moment, drinking in the sight he presented. Then he started the van again and pulled out onto the highway. For the moment he was alone; Kurt Hummel, lone operative. Driving into sleepy suburbia to crash on his brother's couch for the next month or so.

He had no idea how the hell they were going to pull off the usual con right under Burt's nose. This time, Kurt thought, they might have to try something different. In fact, they may need to try running several scams at once to make sure they'd be able to come up with enough money.

An hour and twenty minutes later and the van pulled to a stop outside number 26 Grant St, the house belonging to his brother. Kurt put the van in park, he reached for the sun visor to take down his driver's licence. He put it on top of the one already in his wallet, just in case Burt had developed a curious streak in the time since their last holiday get-together.

Normally the licence that Kurt kept in his wallet put his age at only 16. His real licence marked him as just having turned 30. Dressed right he could look either age, and any range in between the two. It was part of why he was normally so good at what he did.

Five-six, slender, and baby-faced. That was Kurt Hummel. He looked as innocent as snow and just as fragile. It was a look that worked to his advantage.

He got out of the van just as his brother was opening up the front door. "Kurt!" Burt called, his voice booming in the midday quiet.

Kurt turned, grinning. "Burt!" he replied, and greeted his brother mid-way between house and van with a hug. "It's good to see you again."

"Jesus H. Christ you haven't changed a bit," Burt announced, which was something he'd been saying since he'd gone off to college while Kurt was still in middle school. "Come on inside, you can grab your gear later."

"I know I said this before," Kurt said as he followed his brother inside, "but I hope I'm not imposing. I know this is short notice and a lot to ask and, well, I just want to thank you for putting me up like this."

"It's no problem," Burt assured him, leading him into a living room that hadn't changed since the early nineties, "what else is family for but helping out? I'm your big brother, I couldn't leave you homeless. What sort of a big brother would that make me?"

Kurt smiled. "A smart one."

"Ah, I'm not smart." Burt shrugged, and went into the kitchen. "Beer?"

"Thankyou."

"You can stay down in the basement," Burt said, retrieving two beers from the fridge. "I converted the whole thing into a guest room a couple of months ago – pet project for when Muriel finally gets off her ass and comes up for a visit like she keeps promising every year – it's not much, but it's got a bed and a working bathroom. You're lucky I finally got around to putting carpet down last week or you'd be walking around on bare wood floors down there."

"The basement's fine," Kurt said, accepting the beer (Heineken). He sat down on the couch and opened the bottle with his hands. He was going to need to start moisturising again. "Actually I'm just glad you don't mind me crashing here for a couple of months. I don't know what I'd do otherwise."

"You'd have landed on your feet one way or another. You've always had a knack for that."

Kurt nodded. He sipped his beer thoughtfully. Burt was a good guy and a better man than most, a better brother than most too. He was the kind of man a family could be proud of, the kind of man who'd make a good father – though he'd yet to have any kids. He also had no idea what his little brother did for a living, or that Kurt had been in prison for any amount of time. That one year Kurt hadn't made it to Christmas with their parents in Florida he'd managed to convince everyone that it was because he was in Hawaii on a 'mend my broken heart with sunshine and daiquiris' trip. In actual fact he'd been in a medium security prison. He'd only been off probation for two years.

"I'm not going to disrupt running the tyre shop, am I?" Kurt asked, mainly because he really needed to know what hours his brother would be out of the house.

Burt shook his head. "If you don't mind, I've got a hell of a lot of work to get through this time of year. Heck, most nights I'll probably be working late. I'll give you the spare key to the house and you'll be right, wont you?"

"I'll be fine," Kurt agreed, secretly relieved. "I just wanted to know whether I should cook for two. I might as well," he said, before Burt could protest. "I'm not paying rent, cooking is the least I can do."

"Just remember not everyone likes vegetables they can't identify without looking on the internet."

"I promise I'll keep it simple for you."

The basement turned out to be a large and simply furnished, very spacious living area. There was a bed beneath the tiny little window, a chest of drawers, a vanity with a dusty mirror, and a couch sitting in front of a coffee table that seemed to act like a separator between the rest of the room and the laundry. Kurt looked around, peeked into the tiny bathroom with its square shower stall and squashed-in sink, and decided it would do. It was certainly a lot better than some of the places he'd lived in before.

He unpacked his two suitcases, carefully unfolding the expensive clothes and smoothing them down. Moisturisers and makeup were laid out on the vanity, the mirror wiped clean with a damp cloth. He hid the folder with his two fake identities in a small stack of GQ and Vogue magazines in the drawer of the bedside table.

Only after everything was laid out the way he wanted it to be did he take out his phone and dial Puck's number.

The phone rang for so long that for a moment Kurt thought the other man wouldn't answer, but finally the line picked up and Puck's voice rumbled a distracted hello into his ear.

"Did you make it in to town alright?" Kurt asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and smoothing his hand along the top of the comforter. "Or are you still walking?"

"I made it in," Puck replied. "I'm at a motel now, figured I'd pick up a car tonight so I'm ready when you are." There was a pause and Kurt could hear something that sounded like bedsprings squeaking. "How's the family?"

Kurt could hear the other question hidden underneath the one that had actually been asked and rolled his eyes. "Busy as a bee and going to be out of the house from eight in the morning til seven at night every weekday. He doesn't seem to have developed any odd suspicions since the last family gathering either."

"Good."

"I'll be ready for Monday," Kurt added, glancing across the room to the vanity mirror. He straightened his posture and widened his eyes a little, trying for youthful innocence. A sixteen year old boy dressed in suit pants and a pinstripe shirt looked back at him, looking thoroughly out of place. "How much money do we have left?"

There was some rustling, then a sigh. "We're going to need more. Listen, don't worry. I'll work on that, babe. You just do your thing, I'll do mine, and we'll meet in the middle like always."

"Move fast," Kurt reminded him, "we don't have much time."

"I'll move so fast I'll be a goddamn speeding bullet. Love you, baby. Take care of yourself and I'll meet you after school on Monday."

"I'm not forgiving you that easily," Kurt informed his partner, despite the smile on his lips. "You're still in the doghouse."

* * *

Puck hung up and tossed his phone onto the mattress. The motel was small, beige, and utilitarian. It was the location and the anonymity of cash-per-night that made it perfect. He didn't give a crap about the decor, as long as it had a bed, a bathroom and a TV he was at home. And frankly he didn't care much about being in the doghouse either. Kurt would come around, he always did, and in the meantime Puck had work to do.

His job was fairly easy compared to Kurt's – he was usually just the muscle, the background player who got all of the bits and pieces they needed to run a successful scam. Petty cash, cars, IDs and papers if they needed them. He was the grounding wire, the one that got them out if things started going south. Kurt was the one who did all of the dangerous stuff, the acting and the sleuthing, Puck was just there to lend a helping hand and the dirty work that the blue-eyed, baby faced Kurt couldn't do on his own.

He liked to think it was equal partnership. A symbiotic blend of two different skill sets and two different styles of thinking.

Kurt thought long term. Puck was a short-range kind of guy.

The hiker's backpack he'd carried with him to look like an honest backpacker was dumped on the bed next to Puck's phone. He opened up the main pocket and pulled out another, smaller bag that housed all the tools he was going to need tonight in a dozen handy little pockets. Screwdrivers, a wire hook, a set of Ohio licence plates, a torch. He had stealing a car down to an expert art and could change a set of plates in under five minutes.

The trick was not getting caught.

Considering the only thing Puck had ever been busted for was drug possession (and an assault charge or two) he figured he was pretty damn good at not getting caught.

He shouldered the smaller bag and shoved the keys to the motel room in his pocket. What he needed to get tonight was a plain, serviceable car with no identifying marks. Something that wouldn't be alarmed, but that had a good chance of being insured. People with insurance were less likely to keep bugging the police and usually gave up on the idea of finding their car quicker than those who didn't. He was thinking a nineties model. Neutral colour. Something that wouldn't make people cock their head if they saw a guy with tattoos and a mohawk behind the wheel.

It took him an hour of walking around the streets surrounding the motel before he found his mark outside a homey little pub. That was perfect, he thought. Drunk people might forget where they parked their car and give him more time to get rid of any personal possessions left behind.

The tan '97 Corolla parked just out of view from the pub windows would do nicely. Puck opened his bag and drew out the wire hook. Thirty seconds of jimmying and the lock on the driver's side popped neatly open. The lack of alarm made him smirk. Puck opened the door and slid into the driver's seat, hit by a sudden wall of stale-cigarette smell. He ignored it and reached under the dash to find the right wires to give the engine a kick start. He had his hands on the wires when he felt something fall to the ground in the foot well and discovered that he'd made a better choice than he'd imagined. A spare key, a piece of electrical tape still stuck to one side, lay between his feet.

"Score," he grinned.

The engine came to life with a healthy rumble and Puck exited the parking lot at a casual speed. He stopped briefly in an alley to change the plates and get rid of most of what was in the boot and the glove box, then drove off.

He now had a car and one less thing to worry about. There were enough tan corollas on the streets to make the car almost impossible to place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Author**: FearfulLT  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend. 

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

* * *

McKinley High is probably not the kind of place you'd expect someone like him to enrol. It's a public school with mostly middle-class students, after all. But experience has taught him that it's these sorts of schools that have the most repressed, easy to tempt staff. The ones who have the most to lose and who don't have the sense of entitlement or the experience to know how to deal with being blackmailed. He knew damn well that he was going to stand out, but that was half the point. Kurt's milky white skin, pink lips, and sweet baby face is going to work to his advantage.

They'll never see him coming. But the right mark will want to see him when he's coming, and that's the whole point.

Experience has also taught him that it's men more than women who'll go for the sexy schoolboy routine, so it also pays to play gay in order to fuel the fantasy. Kurt is exceptionally good at playing gay. It helps that in real life his partner happens to be a man.

He had filled in the enrolment forms online as soon as he'd known they were going to Lima, and now he crossed his fingers and stepped into the administration office, looking like a nervous new student who wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing. He approached the front desk, a small, hopeful smile on his face.

"Hi," Kurt said, his voice pitched a little higher than usual to make himself sound both younger and gayer than normal. "I'm hoping you can help me. I'm Kurt Hummel, and I need to pick up a class schedule..."

The woman behind the desk looked up at him, her eyebrows raising a little as she took in the sight he presented. Kurt had dressed in designer wear, his long red sweater and fitted black jeans out of place in the school even without adding a white shirt and black bowtie underneath. The red brought out matching tones on his cheeks, the rosy blush making him look younger even than sixteen.

"Valerie?" Kurt prompted, after leaning over to read her nametag. "Can you help me?"

"Kurt Hummel?" Valerie repeated, eyebrows slowly lowering again as she looked through the stacks of manila folders on her desk. "I'm afraid," she said after a moment or two of searching, "we don't seem to have a schedule for you."

"Oh." Kurt bit his bottom lip and made his eyes go wide. "I, um, I'm supposed to be enrolled. My dad filled out the forms before we moved here."

Valerie turned to the rather ancient-looking computer on her desk and typed in a few words. She peered at the screen for a moment. "It looks like you are enrolled," she confirmed. "But for some reason you don't have a schedule yet... I'll have to get you to talk to the assistant principal."

"Ok." Kurt nodded, clutching his school bag as nervously as he knew how. "Thankyou."

"Just take a seat by the wall," Valerie advised him with a smile. "I'll let Mr. Croft know what's going on."

Kurt perched himself awkwardly on one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area, legs crossed. He'd pulled this same con enough times to have the 'awkward new kid' look perfected. It took the assistant principal ten minutes to show up – Kurt spent most of that time staring at the clock – and when he did Kurt immediately crossed him off as a potential mark. The man was so close to retirement age that even if he did show any interest he probably wouldn't care about a scandal. He'd just retire a few years earlier than expected, removing any leverage they might have had.

The talk with the assistant principal was shorter than Kurt expected. He found he didn't even need to fake his expression of bewilderment as a member of the student union was paged over the PA system.

"You can take your classes with Miss Fabray until your schedule gets sorted out."

Kurt arched an eyebrow at the girl who appeared in the doorway, blonde, smiling, and dressed in a cheerleader's uniform. He gave her a quick once over, then smiled at her. "Hi. I'm Kurt."

"Hi," the girl replied with a friendly smile, "I'm Quinn. It looks like we'll be in the same classes for a while."

"I'm sure you two will get along swimmingly," Mr. Croft said, which both students took to be a dismissal.

It took until they were out in the hall and three metres away from administration before Quinn's smile dropped. "Listen, new kid," she said, stopping in the hallway to point at him. "We might have to be in the same classes together but that doesn't mean you can embarrass me. If you have anything uncool to say then keep it to yourself, and if you turn out to be a freak so help me I will make your life a living hell."

Kurt arched an eyebrow. Apparently high school in Lima was a more cutthroat playing field than he was used to. "Is it considered freakish behaviour to threaten the new kid in the middle of an empty hallway before class," Kurt asked airily. "Or is that normal cheerleader behaviour here?"

Quinn's hand dropped. She turned on her heel and stuck her nose in the air. "Our first class is American History, and after that we have French. Don't talk to me."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem." As he followed Quinn down the hall he found himself wondering if her father was rich, and how difficult it would be to get to him. Kurt dismissed the notion as soon as he'd thought of it. He wasn't here to play petty games with sixteen year old prima donnas. He was here to work.

Kurt breezed through each and every one of his morning classes, hardly paying any attention past what topic was currently being covered in each classroom. He already spoke fluent French, as well as a decent amount of Spanish and some German, and found himself explaining to the intrigued French teacher that before his parents' divorce they used to spend the summer holidays in Nice.

He had never actually been to Nice.

By lunchtime he had already heard a few students refer to him as 'that new gay kid'. Kurt just held his head high and acted like a sixteen year old who was pretending he didn't care. He kept his eyes open, carefully assessing every new teacher he met. Most of them were easily dismissible, happily married, too obviously straight, but there were a few promising leads he might have to follow.

He followed Quinn through her classes like a shadow, dutifully sitting at least one seat away from her and at least managing to look like he was paying attention. By the time the school day ended he had narrowed his list of potential marks down to three.

.

* * *

.

"Sandy Ryerson, Sue Sylvester, and Will Schuester," Kurt ticked each name off on his fingers. He sat on the edge of the bed in Puck's motel room, looking terribly out of place in his schoolboy persona. He looked across the bed at Puck, who was lying on his back with his hands behind his head and frowning while he stared at the cracked ceiling.

"Sue's a girl's name," Puck stated. "Public school teachers," he added a moment later. "We should try and run as many games as we can."

"We need the money," Kurt agreed with a sigh, and a short-lived glare at his partner. "As far as I can tell," he began, "Ryerson is the easiest mark. If I work on him first we'll be in bed by the end of the week."

"Schuester?" Puck prompted, rolling onto his side to look at the other man.

"Is the same heavily repressed, unhappy, secretly bi-curious type that we usually hit. He'll take me longer. But," Kurt mused, "he's married, and he's young. Just one photo of a scandalous kiss with a young male student could potentially ruin him."

"So go for the kiss and see how cagey he gets."

"Hm. Who knows, he may have a hero complex. He may want to save me from that horrible Mr. Ryerson," Kurt said the last few words in an overdramatic gasp, then chuckled to himself. Puck bent his knee up and nudged him with his foot.

"And Sylvester?"

"Straight," Kurt answered promptly. "As far as anyone can tell in any case. Also possibly a frigid tyrannical bitch who probably hasn't been laid since the late cretaceous."

"My speciality," Puck smirked. He sat up properly and stretched, rolled his shoulders a couple of times. "So we split this one. You work on Ryerson and Schuester while I whore myself to the frigid bitch and get what I can from her."

"She might have heirlooms," Kurt agreed, "jewellery. If we're really lucky she'll also be a paranoid hoarder and keep all of her cash hidden in her mattress." His wrist beeped and he looked down at his watch. "I need to get to Burt's and change."

"You look hot. You should just leave it."

"You're a pervert," Kurt stated, leaning over to kiss his partner. "A pervert who likes innocent young boys."

Puck snorted. He grabbed the back of Kurt's neck with a large, strong hand and pulled him close for another kiss. "You dress like a catholic schoolboy and pretend to be sixteen. That's perverted."

"You're a whore."

"You love it, freakin' sicko."

Kurt slid off the bed and smoothed down his sweater. He tossed his hair and looked back at the bed. "I hope you miss me when I'm gone."

"All the time, baby."

.

* * *

.

By the time Burt got home from work Kurt was already in the kitchen frying up a pair of steaks. He had changed out of his schoolboy look and into jeans and a plain button-up. The simpler, more adult clothes added at least five years, giving him the kind of enviable youthfulness that made for good TV personalities. Looking at the two of them side by side it was hard to imagine that they were actually brothers, but once you got past the odd difference in age and the fact that Burt had been bald on top since before thirty the similarities were there.

Both Hummel's were pale, a little on the short side, and had the same blue-grey eyes. If Burt were just a little thinner they would even have a similar build.

It was uncharitable to think, but Kurt was often glad that he took after their mother and not their father like his brother did. Catherine Hummel's high cheekbones and plush mouth made it that much easier to put on a masquerade of sweetness and innocence. (Mind you, and this was something he didn't often think about, those same features had gotten him into trouble almost as much as they'd gotten him out of it.)

After dinner the Hummels spent the evening catching up before Kurt finally begged off to disappear into the basement.

He picked his outfit for the next day with care, deciding on painted-on white jeans and a purple shirt. He would accessorise it with a scarf and a pair of knee high boots to help with the 'accidental sexiness' he was going for. He set a lipgloss and a mascara stick out on the vanity too, then spent five minutes running through his repertoire of coy and flirty looks in the mirror. Satisfied that he was still on top of his game Kurt went to bed with moisturiser still shining on his face and hands.

Before that unfortunate two year absence Kurt had kept to a strict and rigorous regime of face creams, toners, cleansers, and things that claimed to be anti-wrinkle divine rejuvenation. He'd since learned that sometimes simplicity was best, now he simply kept to a single gentle cleaner and a good quality moisturiser. It gave him the exact same results and took half an hour less.

When he got up in the morning Burt was already gone, which left Kurt free to take him time getting ready for school – a process that involved lots of looking in the vanity mirror and twisting around to make sure his ass looked appropriately grabbable in his tight white pants. He wore a thong underneath, and fully intended to instigate an incidence of bending over in front of his mark/s.

Bending over in front of Ryerson would require no tact whatsoever given that the man was half a step away from being a confirmed paedophile, but Schuester would require more subtlety. He was going to have to find a reason to lean over a desk while the man was behind him. A very innocent, understandable reason. Preferably with a reflective surface in front of him so he could gauge the other man's reaction.

Kurt arrived at the school full of schemes and plans only to find himself delayed on the front steps before he could even set foot inside.

He stopped, one foot still poised in midair and ready to step up onto the next stair, and eyed the small cluster of large, jacket-wearing jocks who had blocked his way. Each and every one of them was over six foot tall, broad shouldered even with the extra padding provided by their varsity letter jackets.

"Can I help you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you some kind of fag or what?"

A momentary flashback to a less pleasant memory had Kurt pursing his lips and arching his eyebrow even further. This was one of those inevitabilities that Kurt could really do without. High school bullies were tragic, socially impaired morons. But in some instances they could be useful. At least, he mused, if he was bullied then he could use the 'crying on your shoulder' tactic.

"I don't see why that's any of your business."

"We just like knowing what sort of people go to our school," one of the boys piped up, arms crossed, chin thrust out aggressively. "We like knowing we're going to be safe from pervs when we're in the showers after gym."

"Oh for..." Kurt rolled his eyes, cocking his hip out and putting his hands on his waist. "I solemnly swear to keep my eyes firmly on the shower wall and nowhere else, so help me Jesus."

Clearly thrown by the unexpectedly confident retort the cluster shuffled around on the steps. "Oh yeah?" another of the boys said, eyes narrowed. "Well fine. But if you so much as look at us a little funny you're going to get pounded. Understand?"

"Unfortunately, yes." A beat. "Can I go now? I'd like to get to class before the bell rings."

"We'll be watching you," the second boy stated menacingly.

Even knowing he shouldn't aggravate the large hormonal boys Kurt still cocked his head to the side. "Funny," he said thoughtfully, "I'm not allowed to watch you, but you'll be watching me...?"

He could see the exact moment when establishing dominance over the new (gay) kid turned into genuine homophobia and knew he should probably be leaving. Kurt took a step back and started to turn, hoping to seek an alternate route into the school. He was stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder and sighed. The last time he'd played the sixteen year old tempter the school bullies had been particularly fond of public humiliation and he was not in the mood to be tripped, rumpled, ruffled, or otherwise messed up.

As it turned out this lot was slightly more creative, and the school was obviously less policed by watchful teachers.

Barely minutes later Kurt found himself climbing out of the dumpster in front of the school, pants pressing uncomfortably tight as he threw first one leg and then the other over the edge. "McKinley High is a madhouse," Kurt muttered to himself. "I should have gone with Carmel."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Author**: FearfulLT  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

* * *

It took two more days for Kurt to get a class schedule of his own, days that he spent testing the waters and finding out as much as he could about Schuester and Ryerson without actually asking. His snooping yielded interesting results that ranged from confirmation of a boring, unfulfilling life to downright creepiness. He texted all of his findings to Puck, hiding his phone under his desk (or in his sleeve, or behind a book) whenever a teacher looked up.

The practice wasn't so much to get Puck's input as to just keep him in the loop.

Kurt was in math, his first class after lunch, when his phone vibrated with the message '_Syl gardener opening. Getting my Mexican on_'. He chuckled to himself and tucked his phone back into the sleeve of his shirt. He had been working on the issue of how to get to Sue Sylvester but it seemed Puck had cracked it before him.

A few days of a shirtless Puck fluttering around the garden and flirting with her and they'd soon know whether or not Sue had a heart big enough to manipulate to their advantage.

For the moment Kurt put the issue out of his mind and concentrated on his own game. He didn't officially have any classes with Mr. Ryerson, but it was easy to find a way to 'accidentally' bump into him in the hall between classes.

"Sorry!" Kurt gasped, books flying from his hands to land on the floor in the hallway. He glanced up at Ryerson before darting down to pick up his books, saying a quick "sorry" again as he bent over. He could feel the pair of eyes on him like a set of slimy fingers raking down his body.

"You're new, aren't you?" Ryerson asked in his high, nasal whine.

"Yes," Kurt responded, looking up at the other man from where he was crouched down, books clutched to his chest. He stood slowly – as slowly as he could without any of the other people in the hall noticing the lag – and looked shyly at the teacher. "I just moved here. "

Ryerson looked at him. "You should join my glee club," he said, and Kurt knew he was already on the hook and waiting to be wound in. "We meet in the choir room after school today. I'm going to look forward to seeing you there, young mister."

"Yes, sir." Kurt flashed a small, shy smile at the other man. He hesitated a moment, as if not really wanting to leave, and gained an apologetic look; "I need to get to class."

"Yes, do. Please, don't let me stop you from scurrying off to learn."

"I won't." Kurt smiled again. "Thanks."

He left, and arrived to Spanish just in time to slip in late enough to be noticed. He mouthed another 'sorry', this time at the Spanish teacher, and took his seat only when Mr. Schuester nodded at him. There was a good second or two of eye contact which Kurt used to his advantage, making his eyes big and apologetic. He fiddled with his pens during class, eyes flicking up now and then as an attention draw. He answered any questions addressed to him, and some that weren't, getting 80% of them right. It had been a few years since his last Spanish lesson. Even as rusty as he was it was clear that most of the students at McKinley were worse. It wouldn't take him long to step into the role of teacher's pet. From there it would be just a short hop-skip from petting.

At the end of class Kurt made sure to spend enough time gathering his notes to be one of the very last students to leave the classroom. He stood, fumbled one of his pens, and quickly ducked over to pick it up from the floor. He stood just a hair too fast and overbalanced, needing to bend at the waist again to catch his balance.

When he next looked up he was blushing, and Mr. Schuester was watching him. "You didn't see that," Kurt said aloud.

The Spanish teacher smiled at him. "See what? I didn't see anything."

"Yes. Exactly. I have perfect balance at all times. I take dance lessons." Kurt scurried out of the classroom, turning back at the very last second to give the Spanish teacher an embarrassed little grin in the doorway. There was an odd sort of flush across the other man's face that made Kurt want to smirk. Just more proof that he was very good at what he did.

.

* * *

.

"Name."

"Alvarez, Noah."

"Age."

"Thirty-one."

"Previous experience."

"Prison landscaping."

That made her look up from her list, eyebrows drawn together suspiciously. Noah smirked at her from the other side of the table, arms crossed casually over his chest as he leaned back low against the uncomfortable hardback chair supplied for interviewees. The job application and advertisement would have seemed ridiculous and insulting to anyone not used to jumping through hoops and lying their asses off for a living.

Puck had been jumping through those hoops since he was eight years old and his father skipped out of town, leaving him with a neglectful, alcoholic mother. He knew full well how to play the part, to manipulate the odds in his favour and lie like he was speaking God's honest truth. That he played a very specific set of roles was not an issue. A punk like him did labour work because his appearance and background closed doors that might otherwise allow him into a respectable industry. By changing his details just a little he was playing to Sue Sylvester's casually racist view of society. Puck was playing the hot ex-con immigrant, and the tiniest hint of an accent rolled into his vowels helped push the character along.

He had a fake (fake) ID that named him Noah Alvarez, not Puckerman, and the tiny blue x set between the thumb and index finger of his left hand could easily be a prison tattoo from down south. He wasn't going to tell her that it was just an ink test done when he was fifteen and his neighbour got his mitts on a tattoo gun.

Puck held up a hand as if swearing to the virgin. "Swear I never stabbed anyone with gardening shears." Smirk. "Not anyone who counted anyway."

Sue's frown deepened. She leaned forward and clasped her hands together on top of the table. "Tell me why I should hire you. A criminal with bad hair and a fake ID, probably a fake visa too. Tell me why I shouldn't just call the ICE here right now and have your sorry ass deported."

"'Cause you'd wish you'd hired me," Puck stated, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward to mirror her posture. "And my ass isn't sorry. It's hot. And I got a lot of tight jeans, lady. I work for peanuts and fucking lemonade. I'm the best you're going to find with the best English you're going to find, and an ass like mine doesn't just sit around pretending to do the work. I get the job done."

There was a long silence as Sue stared at him, eyes narrowed. "You're hired," she said finally. "You start tomorrow. You bring your own gloves and we'll discuss payment after."

.

* * *

.

The choir room was tiny and tucked away in a distant hallway, but easy enough to find for someone who was looking for it. Kurt arrived there after his last class, just minutes after the halls had been cleared of students. He could tell he had the right room by the noise that filtered out into the hall – the tinkling of a piano coupled with a muffled three-person harmony. Kurt paused outside the closed door and waited for the sounds to stop before he knocked. He rapped three times on the door with his knuckles, then opened it a crack and peered inside.

"Hi... I heard this was where the Glee club meets."

Three faces looked back at him, a tall sandy-haired boy who looked moderately confused, a short brunette girl who managed to mix hopefulness with wariness, and the smiling face of Sandy Ryerson.

"Kurt, come in," Mr. Ryerson said cheerfully. "We were just practising Honestly Sincere from Bye Bye Birdie. Are you familiar with Bye Bye Birdie, Kurt?"

Kurt slipped into the room, smiling shyly. "Yes," he replied, twisting his hands together in front of him. "I sang One Last Kiss at my last school's talent show."

"Well please," Mr. Ryerson chimed, waving the tall boy away to make a space beside him at the piano, "let's hear a few lines."

Kurt smiled, cleared his throat, and sang the first verse accompanied by the piano. It had been a while since he'd last done any singing, but he was familiar enough with the source material that he didn't hit any truly bad notes. The job before last had required him to take music lessons after school. He'd sang One Last Kiss so many times he'd wanted to murder the men who'd written it.

"I'm a little rusty," he demurred afterwards, sure to shyly catch the other man's eye before looking away.

"Don't be silly. I'm sure we can have you back on top after a few private lessons."

Kurt let his smile grow a little wider. This was too ridiculously easy. He felt a little of the pressure slip away. Assuming things kept going this way they'd have the money in no time. With the threat of violence gone he and Puck could move on to greener pastures and get back to doing what they did best in towns where they could actually turn a profit. He'd also feel a lot better when he didn't need to worry about hiding things from his brother – distance made that sort of thing a lot easier.

It was even more troublesome because Kurt had always looked up to his big brother. Even as he'd felt himself slipping sideways into dishonesty and malice he'd always admired Burt's honest nature. The eldest Hummel sibling was the only one who'd turned out right. Kurt didn't have the heart to admit to his family that he'd turned out even worse than Mildred – the terminally unemployed functional alcoholic. Kurt was a liar, a cheat, a thief, and possibly classified as a social deviant.

There was no way he was letting his brother know just how far from wholesome he was.

He lingered after the glee meeting, standing by the piano and idly running his fingers along the keys without pressing down. He knew the girl was waiting for him to look at her so she could engage in a little friendly stare down (he knew the type from other schools) but wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. She took longer than he expected to leave, but finally she disappeared out the door in a huff, leaving him alone with Mr. Ryerson.

"I've always liked singing," Kurt piped up softly, eyes on the piano keys. "My dad doesn't really get it. I mean, he supports me, but..."

"It's not really the same as understanding," Ryerson finished.

Kurt could feel the other man behind him, standing close enough that he could feel the blanket of body heat against his back. He frowned a little at the piano, thinking that maybe he'd have to reconsider how to make this profitable, then put the small smile back on his face and turned around to face the teacher.

"You understand," Kurt offered.

Slowly, hesitantly, holding his breath to make it seem more intimate, Kurt reached up and lightly touched the lapel of Ryerson's shirt. Privately he was hoping for an interruption, because he would have preferred some time to prepare himself for the next step. A breath mint and a good mental image would have to wait. Kurt raised to his tiptoes and kissed the other man, just the barest brushing of lips. Then he pulled away, as if shocked by himself, stared at Ryerson for a second, then bolted.

The other man stood in the choir room, looking as shocked as the part Kurt had been playing. Step one was a success. Now all he had to do was go through the rest of it without retching.

"Pick up your phone," Kurt hissed into his iphone, walking as fast as he could through the halls of McKinley High without slipping in his dress shoes. "Pick up your phone. Pick up your phone you inked-up asshole."

The connection clicked and Puck's voice purred into his ear through the receiver; "Yeah?"

"Pick me up," Kurt ordered. "I need a breath mint and a bottle of vodka."

"Baby, you know I don't carry mints in the car no more."

"Just get here."

"Ten minutes, Romeo," Puck promised. "Meet you in the parking lot."

Kurt paced back and forth across the steps outside McKinley, sharp eyes trained towards the parking lot. He had half expected to need to dive into the bushes to avoid another moment with Ryerson, but by the time Puck pulled up in the corolla there was still no sign that Ryerson was about to leave. When Kurt jumped into the car, Ryerson's volvo was still sitting alone in the parking lot.

The car door slammed shut. Kurt pulled his seatbelt into place just as a tin full of spearmint chewing gum was tossed into his lap.

"Mint," Puck stated, and offered him a hip flask; "Single malt."

"I hate amber spirits," Kurt replied, popping two pieces of the gum into his mouth. "Stop at a liquor store."

"We going to my place or yours?"

"Yours," Kurt said immediately, sinking down against the corolla's fabric-covered seats. "I am not having sex with you in my brother's basement."

"Disappointing." Puck glanced at his passenger and smirked. "What happened to that kinky boy I used to know?"

"He got kidnapped by angry debt collectors and had both arms and legs broken," Kurt deadpanned, giving his partner a dry look.

"Ouch. Fine. Somebody's touchy."

"I haven't had my vodka yet. Buy me vodka, Noah?"

"Buy it yourself."

"I have my 'sixteen' wallet on me. How well is that going to go?"

Puck sighed and took a hand from the wheel to fish in his pockets. He came up with just enough cash for a good bottle of vodka or four bottles of god-awful wine. He took a detour on the way to the motel and stopped the corolla in the front parking lot of a liquor store. Five minutes later he was handing Kurt a 700ml bottle of Absolut.

"Happy?" he asked.

"Very." Kurt cracked open the bottle and took a swig right then and there to wash the taste of forty year old paedophile from his lips.

"So I got the job," Puck commented a second later. "Sylvester might not be frigid by choice either, not with the way she was swayed by my ass."

"Careful," Kurt replied dryly, "she may own a harness and several large fake cocks."

"Occupational hazard," Puck shrugged dismissively. "Anyway, I don't need to get into her pants, just into her house. She doesn't strike me as the lemonade type, so the shirt-off and grab my ass approach is probably my best bet."

Kurt sighed, breath blowing over the lip of the vodka bottle. "It should bother me that the easiest way of getting to a person is through the heart."

"The stomach," Puck corrected him with a nod. "No pesky ribcage."

Kurt held up the Absolut in a gesture like a toast. "To a lack of ribs," he said, and took another swig. He was silent a moment, then looked at Puck. "Lets get ribs."

"I'll order in if you're gonna stay for dinner."


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

* * *

The dumpster was only half-full that morning when Kurt was tossed in, so he landed a little harder than he had the day before. He winced as he hauled himself out, horrified when his jeans caught on the edge enough to rip a coin-sized hole in the thigh.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself as he searched for his bag. He was sorely tempted to break a few of his own rules and show those sixteen year old apes how much damage an aluminium bat could do when wielded by a suitably pissed off adult. Fantasies of getting Puck to scare the crap out of those schoolyard bullies danced behind his eyes when he saw where his bag was – tossed into a tree too high up for him to reach. It would be so easy, so very tantalisingly easy...

"God damn it," Kurt cursed, feeling pathetic as he stood on tiptoes to try and reach the leather satchel.

"Kurt?" A pleasant voice piped up behind him.

Kurt turned, cheeks flushed in righteous anger, and floundered when he saw who was standing there. Thermos of coffee in hand, standing by a beat up blue car that looked less than road worthy.

"Mr. Schuester," Kurt breathed. He crossed his arms self-consciously, as if it were uncomfortable to be caught in a moment of height-related weakness. "I was just... I mean..." He gave the other man his best helpless look, wondering if it would have any effect. "I can't get my bag down."

The Spanish teacher looked back at him, expression indecipherable. After a moment or two he stepped forward. "Let me get that for you," he said awkwardly, taking Kurt's satchel down from the tree. "There you go."

"Thankyou." Kurt took the bag from him, fingers wrapping tight around the strap before he slung it over his shoulder. "I'm used to it, you know," he blurted, and blushed.

"Used to what?" Mr. Schuester had an odd, uneasy look on his face – like he knew the answer already but didn't want to.

Kurt dropped his gaze to the ground briefly then raised up again to the other man's face. "To having my things put in trees. To having no friends. You don't have to feel sorry for me. When you're different..." he smiled sadly. "Well, sometimes that's just the way things are."

"Kurt, I..." Mr. Schuester stopped, then suggested; "Have you thought about speaking to Ms. Pillsbury?"

"The guidance counsellor?" Yes, excellent suggestion, he thought sarcastically. Kurt was pretty sure that even a bullied gay teen would find the idea ridiculous. He shifted his grip on his bag and blinked guilelessly up at the other man. "Why?"

"Maybe you'd like somebody to talk to."

Kurt paused, taking the time to turn the idea over in his head. Here was presented an opportunity. "Thankyou," he said eventually.

Mr. Schuester smiled. "For what?"

Kurt smiled back, making it look shy and sad. "For noticing. For seeming like you care. That kind of thing, it means a lot to some people."

He left it at that and quickly headed inside to get to his locker before school started. Problem number two struck in the form of a small, foot-tapping brunette standing in front of his locker. Kurt raised his eyebrow at the blue ducks on her sweater, he suppressed the urge to laugh.

"Can I help you?" he asked instead.

"Yes," the brunette stated. "As a matter of fact you can. You can stop Mr. Ryerson from dedicating entire sessions of glee club to your sub-par 'soprano' and maybe, just maybe, give someone else the spotlight for a change. Someone who deserves it. Me. Rachel Berry."

Kurt had a lot of experience in reading people. He didn't know whether to be amused or alarmed that she was. "Excuse me?" He asked, genuinely bemused. "I've only been to one meeting."

"Yes, and that was one meeting too many. It was already hard enough for me to get word in edgewise with [Blah] taking every single solo and now that you've come along I may as well not exist!"

"Have you tried being a man?" Kurt suggested mock-innocently.

Rachel glared at him. "I don't appreciate that kind of gender-based discrimination or the implication that men are somehow more desirable as performers."

"Clearly they are to Mr. Ryerson. I'm not your problem, Rachel." Kurt sighed. "And if you don't understand that then that's still not my problem."

"Don't think this is over," Rachel said, then turned on her heel and stomped off down the hallway.

With a bit of practice and a little less melodrama that girl would make a good actress, Kurt thought. He considered her for a moment before dismissing her. Miss Berry was nothing he had to worry about.

.

* * *

.

Puck showed up to his first day of work five minutes late and with his shirt already off. He parked the corolla in front of the driveway on purpose, boxing in the cars already there. He also left it unlocked to test the neighbourhood . He got out of the car and stood beside the open door for a minute while he got ready – which basically just meant grabbing gardening gloves from the passenger seat and choosing a soundtrack of British punk. IPods were a wonderful invention. It was as if they were specifically designed to give you an excuse not to listen to people.

Puck tended to find he got his best results if he was a jerk. Women took one look at him and expected it anyway.

He kicked the car door closed and sashayed across the garden, completely ignoring the 'keep off the grass' sign. He was waiting to get noticed, and in the meantime he might as well scope out the current state of the front garden beds. Mostly neat, a little overgrown and in need of weeding. Someone desperately needed to mow the lawns too. Puck was half way to the front door when he heard someone barking at him and looked up to see Sue standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.

"What?" He asked pointedly. "Can't hear you."

"You're late!"

"What?" Puck asked again, just to piss her off. He reached up and took out one of the ear buds from his ears, Orgasm Addict by the Buzzcocks free to blast tinny and small from the tiny speaker. "I didn't catch that on account of being not interested. Where's your mower?"

He watched, privately amused by the shade of red that rose up on Sue's cheeks at being spoken to with such derision. "Listen up you sad, sorry excuse for an itinerant worker, I am not paying you to stand around listening to music. Now this may come as a shock to you, with all of your notions of America being the land of the free ride and social security, but I am actually paying you to work. That means you get here on time when I ask you to and you don't talk back to me. Understand?" She paused, waiting for his nod. "Mower's in the garage. You can get it yourself."

Puck nodded again and turned to walk towards the garage. "We still haven't talked about payment yet," he called back over his shoulder, smirking as he waited for a response.

The front door slammed shut. When he looked back Sue was nowhere to be seen.

.

* * *

.

Kurt discreetly made himself an appointment with the guidance officer to take place during that day's Spanish lesson. He didn't tell Mr. Schuester, trusting that the appointment would get back to him one way or another whether it was from Ms. Pillsbury herself or the note she'd have to write excusing his absence. He waited out his other lessons patiently, acting no different than he had any other day and answering questions when singled out without actively attempting to get noticed. The subject matter was all the same. Kurt was possibly the only man his age he knew who still remembered everything he'd been taught in high school. The curriculum had hardly changed in the years since he'd graduated.

When it came time to go to Spanish he instead made his way to his locker and put away his books. He took the time to adjust his hair in the cheap plastic-framed mirror he'd hung on the inside, fussing with his shirt collar until there were no other students left in the hall. He knew better than to be caught walking into the school counsellor's office. At least not willingly. The act tended to afford you some respect if you were being sent there because you were in trouble.

He rapped on the open door with his knuckles, peering inside with a timid look on his face. Like he'd never done this before. Like he'd never seen the inside of a psychiatrist's office before and a school counsellor was someone that might make him genuinely nervous.

"Ms. Pillsbury? I'm Kurt Hummel."

The woman sitting behind the desk in the office was small, pale, and redheaded. Possibly the most unthreatening woman Kurt had ever seen. She looked up with naturally wide, kind eyes and smiled at him. "Yes, please come in Kurt. Um. Have a seat."

Kurt stepped into the obsessively tidy little office and shut the door behind him. He looked around as he crossed the room, noting the stacks of pamphlets and helpful little posters on the wall (some of them looked like they'd been around since the school had first opened). He sat down in the chair opposite Ms. Pillsbury's desk and delicately crossed his legs. "Well," he began, nervously reaching up to touch his hair. "Well, I'm not sure where to start. I've never really... talked to anyone before."

Ms. Pillsbury smiled reassuringly, her hands folded together on top of her desk. "Why don't you just start wherever you like and go from there? We don't have to talk about anything you're not comfortable about."

Kurt gave a nervous smile in return. "I'm not comfortable about a lot of things."

"Well we don't have to talk about those," Ms. Pillsbury told him. "Why don't we... talk about how you're settling in here? You're a new student aren't you? How are you finding McKinley High?"

"It's a lot different," Kurt stated, even truthfully, "than the other schools I've been to. I've been to quite a few schools, we move around a lot and sometimes I don't get the chance to settle in at all."

"Do you find that hard?" The counsellor asked, genuine sympathy in her tone. "Maybe hard to make friends?"

"Kids at school... Kids don't like me," Kurt said eventually, recrossing his legs. "I'm far too smart to fit in, I'm interested in things they don't think are cool. I'm also obviously very gay which is, well, downright terrifying for a lot of people." He laughed nervously. "Musicals and high fashion don't make you too many friends, if you know what I mean."

Ms. Pillsbury was frowning. "You feel like the other kids don't like you?"

"Oh no," Kurt shook his head. "I know they don't like me. They've made that very clear by throwing me in dumpsters and taking my things. Yesterday someone actually threw a slushie at me."

"Oh dear."

"I guess it's not a big deal, you know. I'm not even that angry about it. I just wish..." Kurt bit his bottom lip briefly, hard enough to make his eyes water convincingly without needing to take the time to think about dead puppies and missed birthdays. "I wish I could actually find a real friend. Or just someone to sit with at lunch, someone who wouldn't make fun of me." He reached up and delicately swiped the tears from his eyes, sniffed, and took a breath or two to compose himself. "I've almost given up on that. College will be better. Everyone says so anyway. I guess I can hold on until then."

"Have you thought about joining some clubs?" Ms Pillsbury asked, glancing at a list on the wall that clearly labelled all available activities. "Maybe if you join a group that shares some of the same interests you'd find that you make friends without really trying. We have an art club, and a drama club..."

"I already joined the glee club," Kurt interrupted. "But there are only two other members and I know at least one of them is threatened by my voice. Mr. Ryerson is ok though... A little strange, but he seems to know his show tunes."

At that, just as he expected, Ms. Pillsbury pursed her lips and frowned a little. She didn't like that, not one bit. If he'd actually needed confirmation that Ryerson was the easiest mark in McKinley he'd just got it. Kurt kept the smirk from his face and waited for the guidance counsellor to say something. "Perhaps," she started, "you could join the Spanish club. I noticed in your file that you're very good with languages. I'm sure Mr. Schuester would be glad to have you."

"I don't know..." Kurt started, baiting to see whether that was just a throwaway reassurance.

"I can speak to Will about it myself," Ms. Pillsbury offered. "Would you be more comfortable with that instead of talking to him yourself?"

It was a ploy to get him a better male role model than Mr. Ryerson and Kurt could see right through it, but Ms. Pillsbury had also given away something else; She was familiar enough with Mr. Schuester to accidentally call him by his first name in front of a student. That meant there was a very real probability that she'd talk to him about Kurt coming to see her. If she spoke to Mr. Schue herself then Kurt wouldn't have to, he could just sit back and see whether the other man had the kind of exploitable need to help people that he was looking for.

"Ok," he said finally. "I wouldn't mind getting in a little more practice."

"That's great." Ms. Pillsbury smiled at him again. "I'm sure we'll have you making friends in no time. Maybe you could even tutor some of the other kids."

Or somehow weasel his way into advanced lessons and private tutoring. Kurt smiled. "Thanks Ms. Pillsbury."

.

* * *

.

Puck was half way through mowing the front lawn when Sue reappeared, this time from a side door and headed towards her car. Judging from the clipboard under one arm and the travel-cup in the other he'd guess she was going to work. He kept on mowing in straight lines, listening out with one ear for the yelling that was bound to happen when she noticed that he'd boxed her in with his car.

With his back to her he didn't see her coming until he was whacked over the back of his head with her clipboard. "Jesus, lady!" he exclaimed, turning around and glaring at her. "What was that for?"

He knew damn well what that was for.

The way Sue narrowed her eyes told him that she knew that he knew it. "You have two minutes to move that piece of duct tape and twine you call a car before I get into my range rover and drive right over it, squashing it into a pancake more roadworthy than it is now. And make no mistake, it will be squashed."

Puck turned his back on her and cut the motor, muttering curses under his breath that he'd learned from Kurt and not his supposedly-Latino heritage. He loped his way across the yard to the corolla and made a show of getting in to move it. He backed the car up the two metres it took to clear the driveway, then got out and spread his arms wide as if asking if she were happy.

The only answer he got was Sue's range rover revving its engine obnoxiously as she backed out of her driveway and the slight screech of its tyres as she sped away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

* * *

Kurt spent the rest of the school day after his visit to Ms. Pillsbury waiting for a reaction. He dodged Quinn and her poisonous in-crowd, avoided an accidental shove into a locker with a crafty last second sidestep, and kept his head down in class. He had almost given up hope of seeing any reaction at all when Mr. Schuester waved him down in the five minute gap before his last class.

"Kurt, I want you to see me after school if you can. I'll be in my classroom. Don't worry," Mr. Schuester added with a smile, "you're not in trouble."

Kurt nodded, lingered a moment, then hurried off to his last class before he could be marked late. He spent that class pretending to take notes like a good student. The one time he glanced up towards the front of the room it was to see the bored (possibly drunk) teacher doodling on her own teaching notes as she droned on. After that he didn't even bother pretending to take notes. It's not as if anyone would notice. When class ended he made his way through the crushing rush to Mr. Schuester's classroom.

He hesitated a moment outside to quickly apply a little lip gloss to make his mouth look pinker, aware that most people found his lips and eyes to be his best features. At least while dressed. He capped the lipgloss and slipped it back into his pocket, rapped lightly on the door and waited for the 'come in' before he stepped inside.

"Mr. Schuester, you wanted to see me?"

The Spanish teacher was standing behind his desk, organising a stack of papers into some semblance of order. He looked up and smiled. "Kurt. I spoke to Ms. Pillsbury today. She said you might be interested in joining my Spanish club."

"I was thinking about it," Kurt replied, walking forward with carefully measured steps until he was standing right in front of the other man, the distance between them broken only by the teacher's desk. "I like the language, and I know I could improve with more practice."

"Any more improvement and you'll be the best in your year," Mr. Schuester grinned at him. Papers shuffled and stilled as the teacher tucked them away into a battered briefcase from under the desk. "I'd say you were probably top of the class in your last school too."

"The one before that," Kurt shook his head, a little amused that he could tell the truth here. The only thing that needed a little tweaking was the timeline. "My last school only taught French and German. I was there for six months, so I know I'm rusty."

"I took a little French in college," Mr. Schuester offered, inadvertently giving Kurt an opening. "It's a beautiful language, but Spanish is more..."

"Passionate?" Kurt asked curiously, locking eyes with the other man until he looked away.

Mr. Schuester cleared his throat. "I was going to say practical, but you are right. The language – and the culture – is more passionate."

"Is that why you wanted to teach it?"

"I... Actually," again that odd, indecipherable look crossed Mr. Schuester's face. Kurt interpreted it as progress. "For a long time," Mr. Schuester said thoughtfully, "I wanted to be a performer."

Aha. Kurt smiled a shy little smile. "Like a singer?" he asked, throwing in just a hint of eagerness. "I've always wanted to sing. Or act. Or just travel. I think that's why I like languages so much, because even if I can never go somewhere I can learn to speak the language and then it's almost as if I'm there. I can go to all the exotic places I want as long as I have someone to speak it with me. Do you ever feel like that?"

Mr. Schuester hesitated, like he knew he shouldn't be talking to a student about hopes and dreams and about his personal feelings. Kurt widened his eyes a little, hoping that the guidance counsellor had talked about him enough to make him sound like a smart, misunderstood boy who just needed a friend. He willed the other man to think that opening up to him was a good step, a way to gain the socially awkward boy's trust. He timed the seconds until Mr. Schuester gave in.

"Sometimes," he confessed. "I think I used to feel like that when I was singing."

"Like anything was possible."

"Like the whole world was at my feet and all I had to do was step out there and take it. That's how I want my students to feel." The teacher paused. He was silent for a moment, maybe turning that thought over in his head. Eventually he looked back at Kurt and nodded. "You should join the club. I think you'd enjoy it a lot."

"I think I would," Kurt agreed, sure to maintain eye contact for just a second or two afterwards. He looked away and readjusted the strap of his bag. "Thankyou. I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"You will. We meet every Wednesday and Thursday."

"I'll be there," Kurt promised on his way out of the classroom, throwing another smile over his shoulder. The next thing on his to-do list was attending that afternoon's informal glee practice where he could sink his hooks deeper into Mr. Ryerson. This time he was armed with a roll of mints and the memory of Puck spread out naked, jerking off for him on a motel room bed. He could focus on the bang bang bang scripted into the inside of his partner's hip and fake fresh-faced arousal to get the music teacher hot.

He took out his phone on the way to the choir room and sent off a quick text to Puck. They needed to get together that evening to discuss what was going to be needed before they carried on. Kurt needed some information on Mr. Schuester's home life, to be specific, and his relationship with Ms. Emma Pillsbury. He needed to know what he was up against, whether he could throw in a spanner into one or both of his relationships to get the other man feeling vulnerable and stressed.

.

* * *

.

Puck was in the gardening section of the closest Home Depot when he felt his phone buzzing against his hip. He checked the text, resolved to meet Kurt for dinner, and went back to looking for pre-potted flowers. So far the clerk was ignoring him, which suited him just fine. He didn't want to hear about the meanings of flowers or what kind of climate they liked, what he needed was something attractive and easy to replant. Technically this sort of thing went above and beyond the terms of his employment, but he wasn't buying flowers on Sue's orders. He was buying them to see whether she actually had a heart.

A cluster of purple crocus caught his eye, potted together in a blue-glazed trumpet. He bought them without stopping to look at the price. They were an investment, one small step towards melting Sue Sylvester's icy heart enough to let him close enough to get a good look at her credit cards and savings account.

He left them on her front step, right in the middle where they couldn't possibly be missed, a note tucked neatly between the stalks apologising for his douchiness that morning and citing caffeine withdrawals as the cause.

It was her move next.

.

* * *

.

The choir room was empty when Kurt got there, which made him wonder if he had misunderstood the schedule. He decided to wait five minutes anyway, just to make sure. He had just sat down on one of the plastic chairs lining the back wall when the door opened again to admit Mr. Ryerson. And only Mr. Ryerson, who had a very fake look of regret on his face.

"I'm afraid Hank and Rachel are unable to make it today," Mr. Ryerson said, loaded with sympathy so false that even a five year old would have seen through it. "So it's just you and me this afternoon."

Kurt took a deep breath and pictured the perfect v of Puck's hips. He smiled shyly and stood up again, leaving his bag on top of the seat. "That's ok. I don't mind if it's just you and me." He took slow, perfect steps towards the piano, making himself look just a little bit nervous. The kind of nervous a teenager might be if alone with a crush for the first time. He let his thoughts wander to Puck's hands, scarred knuckles and calloused fingers that slid down over taut olive skin; Nails digging into his thigh and dragging upwards. The images brought a soft blush to Kurt's cheeks.

He stopped by the piano and tried for a soft smile, chin tilted down so he was looking at the other man through his eyelashes.

It had been a little less than twenty-four hours since Kurt had initiated that first barely-there kiss. Ryerson would have had plenty of time to think about it. Kurt wondered if he was smart enough to ask himself why a very pretty young boy would be interested in a man like him. His initial thoughts about Ryerson were that the man wouldn't think twice.

A hand, larger than his, fingers clammy and warm, brushed against Kurt's own and he had his answer. Kurt's shy smile grew a little.

"The acoustics in here are awful," Mr. Ryerson announced (Kurt wondered if he thought he was being sly). "A boy of your talent deserves to sing in a much better place than this."

"So... what would you suggest instead?"

"I am just fortunate enough to have a living room that was made for singing in. I think we'd do better moving practice there, don't you agree?"

Kurt paused. Anyone else would have recognised the inappropriateness and left, maybe even reported the incident to their parents or the principal. Kurt was starting to wonder if this was really Ryerson's first time getting involved with a student. He took a half-step forwards, putting on his best look of innocence. "I... don't have a car," he said softly.

"It's alright. I can even drive you home if you like."

"That would be nice."

He shot off another quick text to Puck before he followed the music teacher out to the staff car park. Puck's reply came just as he was getting into Mr. Ryerson's car. '_lock make and bars on windows?_' Kurt knew what he meant. If he couldn't find a way to make this thing profitable then Puck would just have to break in and do a little hands-on research.

.

* * *

.

He left a little before six, popping mints into his mouth one after the other until the only thing he could smell or taste was peppermint. Kurt stopped home only long enough to run downstairs and change into something a little less flashy. He left a note on the table telling Burt he would be back late.

Puck was already waiting for him by the time he got to the motel, boxes of takeaway Chinese sitting on the bed. "How'd it go?"

"Disgustingly," Kurt replied, shutting the door behind him. "Schuester had better be easier than this."

"You have sex with him?" Puck asked, picking up a pair of chopsticks and poking through a carton of noodles. His tone was casual, but Kurt could see the dislike there anyway.

"Worse," he replied, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He picked up the other pair of chopsticks and examined the labels on the other few cartons of Chinese food. "Light petting and dull conversations about dolls and decor. I was bored out of my mind. No bars," he added, "A single deadbolt on the main and back doors. None of the windows I saw had screens. The man has a doll collection and a pink bathroom. I'm beginning to think he doesn't care about rumours."

"What about potential convictions?"

"Sixteen is the age of consent," Kurt sighed, "and we don't want to get into talk of rape. Not when I'm already in the system and definitely not sixteen."

"So it'll be a smash and grab," Puck summarised. "Get into his house again, find his account numbers and pins, do a legal transfer and get the fuck out."

"I also need you to find out everything you can about Terri Schuester," Kurt added, curling his legs up underneath himself on the bed. He never was entirely sure how Puck got his information or how so much of it was always eerily accurate, it was something he'd given up caring about a long time ago. All he cared about was that Puck always came through. "Is she smart, is she easily distracted," Kurt continued, "does she know that Emma Pillsbury has eyes for her husband?"

"Won't be a problem."

The conversation stilled for a moment and while Kurt frowned thoughtfully at his beef and black bean Puck took the opportunity to dig in the nightstand for an envelope full of recently acquired cash. He counted out a few bills and handed them over.

"For expenses," he explained. "That should cover us for a while."

Kurt counted the notes before he put the money away into his wallet. It was more than even a very spoiled sixteen year old should be able to get their hands on, but he didn't intend on carrying all of it with him. "You're brilliant," he said, forgetting for a moment that the situation that brought them here was serious and he was still supposed to be angry with his partner.

Puck wasn't about to remind him. "Only the best for my baby."

"So I got myself into Schuester's Spanish club," Kurt continued after a moment. "I'm convinced he's already shared more with me than he should and he knows it. He has a lot to lose, I'm sure he's bound to get me alone at some point even if he's not attracted to me, so we'll stick with the plan for him."

"You can do it," Puck assured him, reaching over to slide his hand up Kurt's denim-clad thigh. "You've cracked straighter guys before."

"I am very good at what I do."

.

* * *

.

The lawns had been mowed yesterday and part of the garden beds already weeded. Puck showed up for work at Sue's house on time and ready to get stuck in. He ignored the front door, went straight to the shed and returned a minute later with a hand trowel for digging up weeds and tossing soil. He got straight to work, noticing that the crocus was gone from the front step. Sue appeared on the step a few minutes later, saw him already working, and disappeared inside again without saying a word. Puck smirked to himself and continued working. This time he'd parked the corolla away from the driveway.

When Sue left the house at eight-thirty she carried both a travel cup and a thermos with her. She stopped behind Puck and dropped the thermos into the garden bed next to where he was working, a scowl on her face. "Apology accepted. Don't make the mistake of thinking this means I like you."

Puck looked up at her and smirked, acting as if he didn't notice that she was standing and he was on his knees in the dirt. "You don't have to like me. You just have to pay me."

The corner of Sue's mouth twitched. The moment passed and she turned on her heel, barking over her shoulder; "Get back to work, slacker."

"If you come home for lunch," Puck called after her, "I'll show you what I'm going to do out back. Fifty bucks says you'll like what you see."

Sue glanced back at him as she got into her car. She held the door open long enough to snap a "you're on" back at him before slamming the door shut and screeching out of the driveway. Puck watched her go, then stretched and cracked his neck. He'd give her something nice to look at when she got home. Then he'd know when, or if, she'd be letting him into her house.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

* * *

Puck finished weeding long before Sue's lunch hour was due to begin. He cleared up the green waste from the yard and got to work marking areas of the back yard off with small stakes and twine. He was pretty sure he'd never actually get to finish the garden, but couldn't really care. No doubt there would be someone else to fill these planned out garden beds with lilies and alyssum.

He took his shirt off when he started to get properly sweaty, draped it over a piece of outdoor furniture, and carried on until he heard the sound of Sue's range rover pulling into the drive. Puck stood in the middle of the back yard waiting, hands on his hips. He didn't have to wait long for Sue to appear at the back gate, already looking unimpressed.

Puck nodded at her. "You practice that look in the mirror every morning?"

"I won't be satisfied until I can curdle milk at twenty paces," Sue snapped in return. She stopped several paces into the back yard, gate left open, and looked around. "What in the name of communist genocide have you done to my back yard?"

"Marked it off," Puck said with a casual shrug. He took a couple of steps forward until he was standing next to her and pointed out the closest set of stakes and twine. "These are gonna be garden beds, laid in with white lilies and alyssum. Thought I'd put in a few of those purple crocus too, just to spice things up." He winked at her. "Since you seem to like them."

It was pretty clear that not many people took the time to flirt with Sue Sylvester. She looked almost taken aback for a moment, then frowned at him. "All I see," she said, slowly and clearly, talking about Puck's challenge that morning, "is a bunch of sticks and twine."

"That's because you're not counting the important part."

"And what could that possibly be?"

Puck took a step back and spread his arms. "Me."

As expected Sue automatically looked him up and down before realising what that might imply. Her lips curled into something resembling a sneer. "I don't appreciate those sort of foul, inappropriate jokes from the help."

"Lady, I'm not joking." Puck arched an eyebrow at her. He gestured to himself from chest to groin. "You want this? Who the fuck doesn't want to sleep with the hot gardener?" He took her lack of response as his cue to step forward, crowding into her personal space. He was watching her eyes, looking for the flicker of something softer than steel. When he found it he settled both of his hands against her waist, gently stroking through the material of her tracksuit.

"If you think this means you won that bet..."

"What bet?"

Puck knew that a great deal of his talents were purely physical. He was the muscle, the go-to guy for all of the necessary background stuff and short-term fixes they needed. But he was also very, very good at kissing. He pressed his lips against hers softly at first, barely a brush of skin against skin. Sure that he wouldn't be pushed away he closed his mouth gently over her bottom lip and sucked softly until he tasted lipstick. A flick of tongue before he pulled away.

He looked into her eyes, saw the slightly distant look that told him she wasn't quite sure what was happening here, and recalled Kurt's statement '_hasn't been laid since the late cretaceous_'. Whether or not that was true she was certainly looking at him like she didn't know if he was just messing with her.

"Hey lady," Puck winked and jerked his head in the direction of the back door, "I think it's about time we went inside. Unless you want me to go down on you out here in the garden. Which I'm cool with, by the way."

Sue snapped out of her stupor enough to give him a suspicious little glare. She searched his eyes for something and must have decided he was suitably sincere. "Bedroom's upstairs," she said. "I'll get the key."

The half hour and change left of Sue's lunch break passed quickly while Puck used every trick in the damn book to get her off without actually resorting to intercourse. He wanted her to be late, wanted her distracted enough that she'd leave him indoors when she raced off to work. In the end it worked like a charm. Sue left him in the bed with a very brief, not particularly heartfelt death threat and zipped back off to work in her rumpled tracksuit.

Puck rolled out of the bed thirty seconds after he heard the range rover's roar fade into silence. As far as he could tell Sue was only paranoid enough to have security cameras on the outside of her house. He couldn't see any of them indoors.

It was time to do a little exploring.

.

* * *

.

It took just two days – Wednesday and Thursday – to get Mr. Schuester to suggest extra lessons in Spanish. According to him with just a bit of work Kurt would be ready to take on work from the next year up. Kurt, who was still getting ten to twenty percent of his answers wrong, was convinced this was some kind of ploy worked out between Schuester and the guidance officer, probably with an aim to work on his self confidence and give him a better role model than Mr. Ryerson. If the Spanish teacher had actually known what was really going on he probably would have done a lot more than suggest extra lessons.

Kurt had been to Mr. Ryerson's house once more since that first time, frankly a little disturbed when the man had served tea in floral patterned cups and spent fifteen minutes talking about how they'd belonged to his grandmother. Kurt had suffered through it while faking interest and had come out of the experience with a string of pearls that had, supposedly, also belonged to grandmother Ryerson. He'd examined the pearls in Burt's basement guest room and carefully scratched part of one near the clasp with a nail file. When they turned out to be real he'd raised both eyebrows, decided that Ryerson was obviously a freak he could use after all, and sent them off with Puck to be valued.

He was still waiting on a text that would tell him the results but the implication was there. If Ryerson was keen enough to give him what was supposedly a family heirloom then he might be keen enough to give Kurt other valuable pieces as well. Every little bit helped.

The motivation behind Mr. Schuester's extra tutoring didn't really matter, only the fact that it meant Kurt was alone with him for a half hour in an otherwise deserted room.

The very first lesson was during the last half of Kurt's lunch period. The McKinley school library had only two individual study rooms, one of which seemed to have been turned into a file room. The other room was barely big enough for the table and two chairs that occupied it. Sitting in the tiny room on either side of the table felt intimate, closed off from the world. They were in here because the rest of the library was occupied and if Mr. Schuester spent his spare minutes in his classroom it was inevitable that someone would come in to interrupt.

Kurt liked that this was the teacher's idea and not his – that way Mr. Schuester only had himself to blame for their proximity and the fact that their knees bumped together under the table every time one of them moved.

That first session Kurt spent most of his time concentrating on study. He wanted the other man to feel comfortable around him, enough to relax his defences a little. So he kept the wide eyed glances to a minimum and confined himself to sucking on the lid of his pen like someone who'd only recently broken the habit of chewing on it.

The session was spent on conversational Spanish, with Mr. Schuester asking questions and making conversation while Kurt struggled to pick words from a more limited vocabulary than he was used to. English was easy, full of words that had multiple meanings and subtle implications hidden in their usage. He didn't know enough in Spanish to create the same effect. He was better at French, and said as much.

"My family used to spend summers in Nice," he told Mr. Schuester in English, "before the divorce."

"And now you live with your mother in Lima. That's quite a change."

"My father," Kurt corrected, looking at the table, "he moved here for work, and probably to get way from their mutual friends as well. I was with my mother until recently. When she started drinking again I... felt I'd be better here."

"I'm sorry." Mr. Schuester looked genuinely sympathetic, worried that he'd put his foot in it. "I didn't mean to bring up a painful subject."

"It's alright. It's not painful exactly." Kurt frowned slightly, looked at Mr. Schuester and away again as the old, well-practiced lies rolled easily from his lips. "Some people have parents who stay together and love them unconditionally, others don't quite have that." He smiled, the kind of smile a boy gives when putting on a brave face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to unload on you."

"No." Mr. Schuester shook his head. Their knees knocked together under the table as he leaned forward without seeming to notice he was doing it. "That's what I'm here for, Kurt. Part of my job as a teacher is to listen to my students if they need me. If you need to talk then I want you to know I'm here for you."

Kurt smiled shyly back and considered the session a success. "Thanks, Mr. Schue."

"Don't mention it." Mr. Schuester pushed back his chair and stood, gathering up his books. "Sam time tomorrow?"

Kurt nodded. "I'll be there."

.

* * *

.

Puck stood in the parking lot outside the mall closest to the Schuesters' apartment. He was technically in stalker mode, waiting for the right moment to make his move in order to further part of Kurt's game. Still, there was no rule that said he couldn't be on the phone while he waited. In fact a phone call made his presence in the parking lot seem normal – a conscientious driver taking the call before driving off. It helped that everyone else was off in their own little world, too self-absorbed to notice how long he'd been standing there.

"Ideally it should be somewhere ridiculous," Kurt mused, his voice only a little distorted by the fact that he had his phone on speaker. "We'll have to consider visibility. He's most likely to give me an opening in the library, and that's just not practical for us. I've looked, you can't see that room from the windows."

"Spanish club after school?" Puck suggested, listening to the sound of fabric rustling and a drawer shutting. "If you want me to lurk around outside."

"His house would be perfect. He has no excuse then." Kurt paused, clearly thinking things through. "Any progress on the wife?"

"I'm after her now. She's shopping with her sister."

"Approach?" Kurt asked. Puck liked that he didn't question how exactly he knew.

"Nothing fancy. Don't knot your panties, baby. I've got this." Puck's phone beeped in his ear and he added; "Battery's on the out. I'll call you later."

"Don't you dare get arrested for harassment," Kurt warned.

Puck smirked. "Love you too, Nancy."

"Dick."

Puck hung up before the phone could cut out on him and tossed it into the back seat. He pushed away from where he was leaning against the corolla and kicked the door shut. As luck would have it he'd just seen Terri Schuester and her sister emerge from the mall exit. He had his work cut out for him with those two blondes, he could tell just from the way they walked, noses in the air. He decided to put his faith in casual, trusting that any denial of ever knowing him would be taken as confirmation.

He timed it pretty well, walking towards them from an angle that meant they wouldn't see his approach until he was right on top of them. He looked away at the last second, to make it look like an accident, and stumbled right into one of the women. She dropped her shopping, which he nearly tripped over.

"Jesus!" Puck exclaimed, just barely managing to avoid stepping on the dropped shopping. He looked up, straight into the face of a shocked, angry blonde woman. "I'm sorry. Wow. Teach me not to pay attention, right?"

"You should watch where you're going, mister!" The older blonde snapped, an acrylic-nailed finger pointed dangerously in his direction. "This isn't the slums, this is mid-town suburbia, and people like you don't get right-of-way."

"Kendra!" The other blonde, by process of elimination Terri, exclaimed, bending to grab her dropped shopping. "I'm sure it was an accident."

"Hey, let me get that for you." Puck dropped into a crouch and snagged the two bags that had fallen closer to him than to Terri. The look on her face was wary, hiding her natural discrimination behind a polite smile. Puck smiled back at her, apologetic and sincere, to counter it. He stood, holding out her shopping. "I'm sorry," he said again, "I honestly didn't see you."

"It's no problem, really," Terri replied, her smile still mostly fake.

"It is a problem," Kendra insisted, "People should learn to watch where they're going."

Puck ignored the comment from the older sister. "Sorry again anyway." He held up the bags she'd yet to take back. "You need help carrying these or something? I'm Puck, by the way."

"Terri, and this is Kendra. And no, we're fine." Terri took the bags from him and turned to leave, stopped when Puck spoke up again;

"Not Terri as in Schuester?"

Surprised, and wary again, Terri blinked at him. "Yes, that's me. How do you know my name?"

"I know your husband, sort of." Puck shrugged, explaining; "I work at McKinley after hours, cleaning shit. I mean, I never actually met Will but Emma talks about him all the time, so I kinda feel like I know the guy."

Terri bristled, hackles already up from being identified by a perfect stranger. "Who's Emma?"

"Emma Pillsbury, the guidance chick. According to her they spend all their free time together, really good friends. Though personally I think she has a little crush on him, you know." He grinned, and winked at Terri. "She's even got a little picture of him in her desk."

"Terri?" Kendra asked, looking at her sister's face as it slowly turned red. She frowned at Puck. "That's enough. It's time for you to get going, and we're leaving."

Puck stood there and watched as Kendra bustled her little sister away. He turned and sauntered towards the mall entrance, intending to pick up a couple of things before he left and called Kurt from the motel. He'd have to tell Kurt to find a way to slip a picture into the guidance counsellor's desk, just in case Terri was ambitious enough to actually check. That way Emma would be unable to deny anything else without it sounding like a lie.

He'd been back at the motel for just under half an hour, phone still charging on the bedside table when it rang. Puck had just barely finished up his call to Kurt, and raised an eyebrow when he saw the number flashing up on the screen. He answered with a smirk; "Yeah?"

"You're coming over now and I don't want to hear any buts or whining or I'll use your phone's GPS strip to track you down, and then I will tie you up and feed you to the starving bears at Columbus Zoo."

"But then you wouldn't have a gardener, baby."

"Just get here. Before I change my mind."

"Two shakes," Puck promised, still smirking, and hung up. He couldn't help but be impressed by just how easy it was to get Sue Sylvester to trust him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

**Notes**: I don't know a single word of Spanish, so for this chapter you can assume that when a character speaks in itallics ["_blah_"] they're speaking in Spanish.

* * *

Kurt went to school that morning with Puck's midnight voicemail ringing in his ears. 'I am fucking _in_.' The sole sum of the message, totally meaningless to anyone who didn't know what was going on. Kurt knew what it meant and promised himself that he'd step up his game. Time was in short supply. He needed Schuester hooked yesterday so they could get this over with and get the hell out, to a better town and a better payoff – one they'd actually get to see.

Kurt hurried up the stairs, half way to the school's entrance before he was accosted by a cluster of girls in red and white. "I'm not interested, ladies, "he said, throwing on his best gay-boy voice for extra effect. "But if you're looking for tips on how to improve that very amateur makeup then I'm sure I can find some time."

"We heard a rumour," a brunette piped up, ignoring his comments, "that you're getting it on with Mr. Ryerson."

"Unfounded, disgusting, and false," Kurt stated immediately, pushing his way through the cluster. As he walked down the hall he clearly heard Quinn's voice calling after him.

"We'll be praying for you, Kurt."

"Pray I don't come back just to bankrupt your daddy," Kurt muttered under his breath.

He put the incident from his mind long enough to get to his first class. As soon as he was sitting at his desk he started mulling over the implications. Rumours circulating already meant that his window of time was decreasing fast. He had a week at best before someone actually investigated, maybe less. And on top of that there was obviously someone at the source of the rumour, someone who either disliked him enough to claim that he was sleeping with the creepiest adult on staff or who had reason to believe it was actually true.

The culprit became clear almost immediately. Rachel, the diva from the glee club. The issue was also easily solved and he resolved to corner her as soon as possible. Now that he'd been to Ryerson's house the club was unnecessary, Rachel could have it. Kurt had bigger things to think about. Like, for example, using some of the phrases he'd googled last night when he was next alone with Mr. Schuester.

As luck would have it today's schedule meant that Spanish fell just before lunch, which gave Kurt the perfect opportunity to drop one of his suggestive phrases. He made sure he was the last out the door, a slightly suggestive compliment rolling from his lips on the way out. They were supposed to meet in the library for another private tutoring session in just fifteen minutes. Kurt hoped that Mr. Schuester wouldn't have had time to think up a proper, appropriate response before then.

He used his fifteen minutes wisely and tracked down Rachel Berry. He found her by her locker, sidled up, and stated firmly; "Rachel, we need to have a chat."

At first she looked as if she were going to protest, to stick her nose in the air and declare that she had no idea what he was talking about. A glimpse at the sudden steel of his blue eyes changed her mind. Rachel flicked her hair back from her shoulder. "What do we need to chat about exactly?"

"Glee," Kurt replied casually, raising a hand to examine his nails. "I want you to know you can have it. I'm going to be dropping out. I feel it's better to not sing at all than to stay and listen to more nasty rumours."

She looked caught, but doesn't have the grace to look sorry about it. "Well," she says, "I'll be sorry to see you go."

She won't, he knows. He smiled at her anyway. "I'm sure you will."

He left her there in the hallway in favour of arriving early at the library. He sat down at the table in the tiny study room, legs crossed, tapping his fingertips gently against the tabletop. He didn't have to wait too long for Mr. Schuester to arrive, clutching a textbook and a couple of loose sheets of paper.

Kurt uncrossed his legs and sat up properly in his chair, greeting the teacher with the most musical pronunciation he could get away with.

Mr. Schuester's response sounded distracted. He took a seat on the other chair and set the textbook and papers down in front of him. "Kurt, I think we need to have a talk."

"_A talk about what, Mr. Schuester_?" Kurt replied in Spanish, pleased that his crash course seemed to be improving his fluency quite quickly. He'd been doing extra study in the evenings before bed, practicing aloud in the basement after his brother had gone upstairs to sleep. He was hoping that he'd be good enough so that when, or if, the teacher acknowledged all of Kurt's subtle flirting they'd be able to have the conversation in Spanish.

Like he'd hoped, Mr. Schuester replied in the language he taught; "_I need to be sure you understand some things. Important things that I'm not sure anyone has spoken to you about_."

"_What things_?"

"Kurt_, you know that I'm your teacher_."

"_Yes_."

"_You know that I'm married_."

At that, Kurt put on his very best imitation of youthful innocence and confusion. "_I don't understand_."

"Married," Mr. Schuester repeated in English. "Kurt, I'm married."

Kurt shook his head, frowning at the other man. "_I understand the words. I don't understand why you want to talk about that_. _Is there a problem to do with me_? _Your_ – I don't know the right tense – _married_?"

Mr. Schuester hesitated, hands hovering above the loose papers on the table. Every little bit of his body language was saying that he was tense, uncertain. Out of his depth.

"_Is it because I'm_... I don't know the word in Spanish." Kurt bit his bottom lip. "Gay? Are you uncomfortable teaching me, Mr. Schuester? I understand, if you are. You're not the first teacher to... to have issues with me. If you don't want to teach me anymore, I can..." Kurt took a deep breath, blinking his eyes rapidly as if consciously trying to hold back tears. "I can study at home," he finished. "Or switch to a different elective. It's not a big deal for me. It happens all the time."

He looked down at the tabletop, secretly wishing he could keep his eyes on the other man without making it obvious that he was watching for tells in his body language. Kurt needed to make it look like he was hiding his upset. Upset people didn't stare expectantly.

The room was silent for what felt like a long time. Then finally, slowly, Kurt heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor. He could see it in his peripheral vision as Mr. Schuester inched around the table until he was close enough to put a hand on Kurt's shoulder.

"No," he said finally, fingers squeezing gently through Kurt's designer jacket. "No, I don't have a problem with you and I'm not asking you to transfer. I wouldn't want to lose my number one student." There was a slight change of tone in that last sentence, as if Mr. Schuester were trying his best to introduce a little humour into the conversation.

Kurt knew what was expected of him. He laughed softly, just once. "Thankyou," he said. A pause, and Kurt very slowly, very carefully raised a hand to touch Mr. Schuester's fingers where they rested on his shoulder. "That means a lot to me."

The silence was back. A pregnant pause, like the whole room was holding its breath, tension weighted in the air.

The hand didn't pull away, but stayed there on Kurt's shoulders. Kurt kept his hand where it was too, fingertips barely brushing against Mr. Schuester's knuckles. He could hear the other man breathing. Slowly, deliberately, the Spanish teacher's fingers moved, raising a little to brush against Kurt's in a caress. Kurt replied with a gentle, deliberate stroke. Somehow, Kurt was sure he didn't initiate it, their fingers tangled together, linked on top of Kurt's shoulder and hidden from view where Mr. Schuester was blocking the window.

"You're the best student in your year," Mr. Schuester stated, a little too softly.

"I like learning." Kurt took his cues from the other man, voice soft, hesitant like he hadn't said the same thing to other men before. "I want to impress you."

"Kurt..."

The bell rang, startling them both. Kurt cursed silently in his head. He had so little time to work with as it was, now he ran the risk of the other man coming to his senses between now and the next time they were alone. Mr. Schuester's fingers slipped from his, the teacher scooting away back to the other side of the table where he could pick up his things again. He smiled at Kurt from across the table, like he wasn't really sure what he was doing.

"I'll see you in class," he said, stopping briefly in the doorway to remind Kurt; "Same place tomorrow."

The progress, Kurt thought, was more than worth being five minutes late. He weighed the risks against the potential payoff and casually slipped his phone under the desk to send a text to Puck. Time was of the essence. It only needed to look consensual from the outside, just a bonus if it actually was. He received a reply a few minutes later. Puck would be there, waiting, ready to capture the moment forever.

All Kurt had to do was make sure he was alone with Mr. Schuester in the Spanish classroom after school.

.

* * *

.

It wasn't that hard, you know. To sneak into school grounds without setting off any kind of panic or giving the impression that you weren't supposed to be there. Half of it was attitude, pulling up as if you had every right to be there at that moment, looking like you were there for a reason. That was where most people went wrong. Nine times out of ten the only reason someone got flagged as suspicious is because they were acting that way – nervous, jumpy, milling around like they had nothing better to do. Puck preferred to take the 'bullshit' approach.

Slimline digital camera in his pocket, he checked his watch as he got out of the car. He was two steps toward the building when the first trickle of student started emerging. Teenagers were usually pretty easy to get past. A swarm of loud, preoccupied adolescents, most of whom just wanted to get the hell out of there. They hardly ever noticed a guy dressed in worn jeans and a navy work shirt headed towards the school building. And if they did notice him they saw him walking like he had somewhere to be and assumed he was maintenance, maybe a janitor or plumber. When he went around the side instead of into the school they probably assumed gardener.

Puck just thought it was fucking lucky the Spanish classroom was on the ground floor.

By the time he found the right place, guided by Kurt's description and confirmed by the flag pinned up on the back wall, the school was mostly empty. He tucked himself into a nook with great visibility and pulled out the camera to check its ability to focus through the window. The smaller windows at the top were cracked open just enough that Puck could hear what was going on inside.

He had to smirk a little as he watched Kurt work. If he didn't already know better he would have sworn that was really just a pretty sixteen year old kid standing in that classroom with his youngish male teacher.

Puck watched through the camera as Kurt spoke shyly to the teacher, already standing just a little too close to be innocent. The flash and noise of the camera disabled, Puck snapped a shot of the teacher's profile and Kurt's sweet smile. He caught another of the teacher's hand raising, a third when he placed it gently on Kurt's shoulder, thumb brushing against the side of his neck. He watched Kurt step forward, head tilting back a little further so he could keep looking at Mr. Schuester's face.

Delicate, pale hands touched the Spanish teacher's sweater vest, smoothing down over the material. Kurt stepped forward and a little to the side, skilfully turning Schuester just enough for Puck to get a better angle of his face. The man looked serious, a hint of nervousness in the lines around his eyes. Puck's next snap caught the man licking his lower lip, thumb brushing Kurt's cheek and dangerously close to his mouth. He purposefully missed the moment when Kurt turned his head a little and kissed that thumb.

Puck got the sense then that this was the moment and readied himself for the rapid set of photos to follow.

He watched as Schuester leaned in, eyes closing at the last second. A forbidden first kiss caught forever on digital film, including the momentary shock in Kurt's wide eyes before they closed into contentment. Feeling perverse, Puck zoomed in as far as the camera would allow and managed to catch a tiny hint of tongue. From this angle he couldn't tell whose it was, and really it didn't matter.

They had what they needed now. All the rest was just dirt thrown into a grave.

It took another ten minutes for Schuester to come to his senses enough to decide that maybe this was a really bad idea; Puck had to suppress a laugh when he saw the exact second that registered and ducked down under the window to listen to the awkward goodbyes before the teacher fled the room.

A few moments later and Kurt was standing by the window, looking down at him. Puck straightened, grinning at his partner.

"I assume you got it all?" Kurt asked, plucking a roll of mints from his jacket. He popped one into his mouth, rolling it around over his tongue.

"In technicolour, baby." Puck flipped the camera to view mode and showed Kurt the last couple of images he'd taken. "Irrefutable fucking goldmine of proof."

"Perfect, as always." Kurt smiled at him through the window. "Meet you at the car. You can drive me home."

Puck heard the 'so I can do it all again tomorrow' even though Kurt didn't say it and raised a hand to tap the glass with his fingers before he left hid hiding spot by the window to walk back to the parking lot. Things would move pretty fast from here on in, he was sure. They always did after the first photos.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

* * *

"I had a visa, you know."

Puck made the statement while lying naked beside Sue Sylvester in her bed, the sheets around him rumpled, lipstick still smudged against his skin in places. Sue looked strange and vulnerable beside him, part of the blanket tucked up over her breasts and belly as though she were secretly insecure about her body.

"Two year working visa," Puck continued, playing off the stereotype just enough to sound believable. "So you can't talk shit about crossing the border. I even applied for permanent residency, a fucking extension, anything. In the long term it was just easier to say 'screw this' and stay."

"People like you are the reason we have immigration policy," Sue stated, her voice still hoarse and croaky from earlier abuse. "You people are the reason this once great country is on her knees."

"We're the backbone of the economy," Puck teased, though he was privately rolling his eyes and wondering if she was actually serious or some kind of modern satirist.

"Taking jobs from honest Americans –"

"Who refuse to work the shit jobs from a sense of patriotic entitlement."

"Nobody interrupts me." Sue jabbed her finger into his chest. "Remember that in future."

"Shut up, Sue." Puck propped himself up on his elbow to look down at her. "I know you like me."

"I despise you," Sue replied, the venom in her tone so weak that anyone who overheard wouldn't have believed it. "You are a loathsome ratlike individual whose people are responsible for countless crimes against humanity."

Puck smirked. "My people? Not me?" He watched Sue fumble for a response for a moment, letting her bask in her perceived shame before he pressed on; "You know if I had a visa I could get a respectable job. A proper job – one you're not paying for. Even guys like me can do better than this. I'd get to take you out before we go to bed. Hell, might even marry you someday when you won't think I'm only asking for the greencard."

Sue looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. She sat up, turning away from him and taking the sheet with her. "I don't even know why you like me," she said bitterly, that hint of vulnerability hovering somewhere nearby. "This has to be a joke. Sue Sylvester doesn't fall into these traps."

"No trap," Puck assured her, moving across the bed until he was right behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and leaned in to press his lips against the nape of her neck. "You're fascinating, Sue. You're rude, mean, you're not PC and I fucking love that."

"I'm cold."

"You're not cold. You're just afraid of getting hurt." Another soft press of lips against her skin and Puck smirked. "C'mon," he purred into her ear, "everyone wants a hot Latino."

Sue snorted. "Alright," she said dryly, "how exactly do we get you a visa without resorting to a disgusting sham of a marriage?"

"You're not gonna like it," Puck warned, rubbing her shoulders and massaging the back of her neck with his thumbs. "It's all bribery and cash."

.

* * *

.

The creepy dollhouse of Ryerson's home was becoming way too familiar for Kurt's liking. While he'd proven that there were few limits to his self control there was only so much that even Kurt could take. Statistically speaking it was reasonable to assume that there were people out there in the world who might actually like Sandy Ryerson and his house of creepiness. Kurt just wasn't one of them.

He stayed later this time, on purpose, claiming that his father was away on business and wouldn't notice him gone. He stayed long enough to wait for Ryerson to fall asleep before he slipped quietly out of the bedroom and began his search through the rest of the house.

He hit the study first, carefully looking through hardcopy folders and the desk drawers before he replaced each item as close to where it had been as he remembered. He scribbled a copy of Ryerson's login details onto a post-it note, always happy to find a person who didn't memorise the details of their online banking. Kurt slipped the post-it into his sock, the corners of the paper scratching at his ankle, and moved on. He dismissed the guest bedroom and checked the kitchen instead. A quick look through Ryerson's small collection of ornate sugar pots revealed a thin wad of cash. Kurt peeled a few of the notes off the top without checking the denomination and slipped those into his other sock.

Every little bit helped, after all.

He found a necklace that looked suspiciously like it was set with diamonds hiding in the bread box. He didn't take it.

His search concluded, Kurt slipped back into the bedroom and found the rest of his clothes. He dressed in the dark, careful not to make too much noise, and left the bedroom as quietly as possible. He found his satchel bag and hooked it over his shoulder, then wrote a note for Ryerson and pinned it on the fridge.

'_Sandy_,' the note said, '_sorry for leaving so early. I promise I'll make it up to you. I took a taxi home, so you don't have to worry about me. Kurt_.'

He didn't call for a taxi until he'd already walked two blocks from the house. It was late, very late, but through some small miracle the taxi service in Lima did stay open all night. Kurt couldn't change shirts before he got to his brother's house, but trusted that the hour and the state of his hair would imply that he'd been out with someone else.

Kurt paid the driver and walked up to the front door with his house key in hand. He unlocked the door and flicked on the hall light long enough to get him to the kitchen. On the table sat a note scrawled in Burt's scratchy cursive that stated that there were leftovers in the fridge if he wanted them, and that it might be nice to actually be involved in his little brother's life sometimes. Kurt smiled at the note, feeling only a little guilty about the way he was using Burt.

He would tell his brother about the date he'd been on. At least parts of it. He planned to leave out the part where his 'date' was a creepy pseudo-paedophile who collected dolls and sugar pots.

Downstairs in the basement room Kurt undressed and took off his socks. Three hundred dollars and Ryerson's online account details fell to the floor. Kurt folded his clothes and put them in the washing basket before he stooped to pick them up. Ryerson's details went into his real wallet, the one with his real age on his driver's licence. The three hundred went into his other wallet.

A long shower and two mints later and Kurt finally dropped onto the bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. He had one day to catch up on real life before school and subterfuge started again. He planned on using it to his advantage.

.

* * *

.

One of the dodgy parts of these kinds of scams was convincing your mark that all of these cash transactions were not only justified, but completely and totally logical. In cases like this, when trying to scam money from someone in an elaborate ruse based on immigration law, that meant that there would need to be supporting documentation.

This was Puck's first time trying this sort of thing. He had the theory down, had heard about this sort of game before, but he'd never actually done it himself.

Getting his hands on the right set of forms to begin the application process for citizenship was actually a royal pain in the ass and could take up to two weeks. So he was forced to improvise. A little innovation never hurt anybody – that was what he told himself anyway. A computer, a Xerox machine, and a public library and he was able to whip up a fairly convincing stack of legal bullshit filled with sign heres and criminal check theres and please send form A with cashier's cheque or money order. The final touch was, of course, the government header, and the printed signature from some official guy in charge of the whole bullshit process.

So this was all step one.

Step two would be actually figuring out how to cash the cheques or orders without attracting attention. Kurt could do that. Puck had enough on his plate right now.

He didn't actually show Sue the paperwork himself. He just slapped it down on the back step and busied himself doing the work he was actually hired for. Garden beds were boring as hell, but he had an image to keep.

Sure enough sooner or later Sue made her way out to the back garden, carrying a plastic smoothie cup with her. She almost stood on the folder full of papers before she noticed it, and Puck pretended he wasn't paying attention as she stooped to pick it up.

"What's this?"

"What's what?" Puck replied, stopping briefly to lean against his shovel. He looked over at Sue, and the folder, and shrugged. "Right. That bullshit. Listen, just forget it. I'm fucking fine without it."

"What the hell are you talking about, Alvarez?" Sue flips open the folder and starts skimming through the papers, barely a glance until she finds the sections that fall open too easily – like he's been staring at them and worrying over them. "Two thousand dollars for an application fee?" The incredulity in her voice drops as she stares at him, and takes in the lines of tension across his back and shoulders. He looks like he's trying very hard not to let her know that he's crushed. "This is small change," Sue announces, snapping the folder shut. "Sue Sylvester wipes her _ass_ with two thousand dollars."

"Yeah? You need ten in the bank," Puck snaps, tossing the shovel down and turning to glare at her, "fucking _ten_ so they know you got 'means to support yourself' for six months in case you hop on over and nobody wants to give you a fucking job. You think I got that kind of money? And I am not asking you – there's no way in fuck I'm gonna ask you for that. So just forget it, Sue. Forget the whole bullshit American-pie dreamhouse crap. It's not happening."

(In his head, Puck can't help but be quite proud of himself. He just managed to imply both that he wanted that 'American-pie dreamhouse crap', that he wanted it with her, and that he's too proud to admit it. Just like she is.)

He waited a moment, then shook his head and picked up the shovel again. He dug the blade into the ground in violent, stabbing motions, giving his very best imitation of mad-as-fuck-but-not-at-you. It took a while for Sue to give him any kind of response. When she did finally respond Puck hadn't expected it to be so calmly.

"Stop that," Sue ordered flatly. "And come inside. You're going to owe me for a long, long time and you had better be prepared to serve me until the day I keel over and die to make up for it."

"Excuse me?"

"Are you deaf? Get your ass inside."

Puck raised his eyebrows. It was almost a pity he was only after her money, he thought to himself as he let the shovel drop again, otherwise he might seriously like her attitude.

.

* * *

.

'_Syl releasing bonds 4 12thou. 2 days. ready?_'

Kurt was in class when he received the text and slipped his phone under the desk to read it. Between the hours of 8am and 6pm his phone was always on silent, otherwise he might have risked having it confiscated as he typed up a reply; '_Ready when you are. Are the pics done?_'

'_you look sexy They came out good. Im looking at them now_'

'_Two hours until school ends. Meet me in the spanish room?_'

'_stalls after? just like old times_.'

'_Suck it, Puckerman. I'm still mad at you_.'

Kurt slipped his phone back into his messenger bag, smirking a little to himself. It was starting to look like they might actually pull this off, at least enough to but themselves enough time to get back on their feet. And even if it weren't going so well, Kurt's lingering annoyance at Puck's rashness had left the building. Not that he was going to tell his partner that, not yet. Twelve thousand upped the estimated take – if Kurt could successfully drain Ryerson's accounts – to just under thirty thousand dollars. That was just ten shy of the amount owed to MacGrady in repayment of that well-timed but ill-advised loan. At the very least it would be enough to convince the man not to send in any unsavoury characters to try and produce blood from a stone.

Satisfied with that thought, Kurt breezed through his last classes as a quiet presence in the back row, idly scribbling in his notebook so it looked as if he were paying attention. The second the bell rang he was up out of his seat and into the hallway. He managed to make it to the Spanish classroom even before all of the students had left the room, and waited patiently outside until everyone had gone. When Mr. Schuester was the only person left in the room Kurt stepped inside, closing the door most of the way shut behind him.

"Mr. Schuester...?"

The Spanish teacher looked up. When he saw Kurt his face paled a little. Good, Kurt thought, that meant the man still had enough of a sense of reality to regret those kisses.

"Kurt... Ah. This might not be the best time."

"I think we need to talk," Kurt said seriously, ignoring the way Mr. Schuester was starting to look flustered. He slipped a hand into his messenger bag and took out his phone to check for new messages. There were none, so he assumed Puck was close by and not running late.

Mr. Schuester raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Yes," he agreed ruefully, "I think we do."

"We need to talk about last week," Kurt clarified, "about when you kissed me."

Mr. Schuester didn't argue the term, just looked uncomfortable. "Kurt, you need to know... That shouldn't have happened. I'm married, and I'm your teacher. It was irresponsible of me and I'm sorry if I led you on, but nothing like that can happen again."

"Ever?" Kurt asked, making his eyes wide. He took one step forward, coming nowhere near to closing the distance between them, but the other man looked even more uncomfortable anyway. "You really regret what happened?"

"I do." The Spanish teacher sighed. "You need to understand, I love my wife. I don't ever want to risk my marriage."

"So you... just want to forget it?"

"Kurt, you're a smart, wonderful young man. One day you'll find someone your own age. Yes," Mr. Schuester nodded, "I think it's best if we just forget it ever happened."

Kurt fluttered his eyelashes innocently. "So you don't think I should tell Principal Figgins about it?"

For a moment the Spanish teacher looked shocked, then lines of genuine worry appeared on his forehead. Before he could open his mouth to say anything someone rapped lightly on the door. Kurt turned to look and smiled when he saw Puck standing casually outside. Perfect timing really. And he'd been worried that his partner would be late.

Puck stepped into the classroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He was holding an envelope in one hand, stuffed full with printed photographic proof of Mr. Schuester's indiscretion. "Sorry I'm late, babe," Puck commented, coming up beside Kurt, "traffic was a bitch."

Kurt took the envelope from Puck and opened it to casually flick through the first few photos. He chose a particularly damning shot to show to Mr. Schuester. "I like this one," he said aloud, "it's quite artistic. I think it captures the expression of rapture on your face quite just perfectly, don't you?"

"What...? What is this?" Mr. Schuester asked, his throat suddenly gone dry.

"This is a photograph of you kissing me," Kurt explained, sauntering over to the teacher's desk. He placed the photograph down on top of a stack of papers that needed to be graded, and picked out another photo to put down on top of that. "This is another photograph of you kissing me... with your hand up my shirt."

"It's also blackmail," Puck added, leaning against the closed door. "In case you're having trouble figuring that one out."

"Blackmail?" Mr. Schuester asked, looking like he wasn't quite sure if he should be horrified or angry. A quick glance at the tall, broad-shouldered brute guarding the door and he decided on horrified.

"Unless you'd like to tell your wife, your employer, and the school board," Kurt replied, "that you've been having an affair with one of your male students. I'm aware that sixteen is the legal age of consent and there will be no criminal charges filed against you, but you'll certainly lose your job, probably your marriage, and I'm willing to tell everyone that it went a lot further than kissing. Who do you think they'll believe, especially since there are photos."

"Hell, why don't we just tape them up all over the place?" Puck asked, grinning.

"True," Kurt agreed, "I don't mind having a bit of a reputation."

"I could go to the police," Mr. Schuester pointed out.

"And I could tell them you assaulted me," Kurt countered calmly, with absolutely no intentions of doing so, "or that you used your position as a teacher to seduce me. You know as soon as the police get involved nobody will think you're a victim."

"They'll be thinking 'paedophile'," Puck added helpfully. "Child molester. Registered sex offender. I know a few of those, they say it's pretty hard to find work."

Mr. Schuester sat down in his chair. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, face covered with his hands. (Kurt inched the photos away from him and tucked them back into their envelope.) "What do you want?" Schuester asked, voice dull.

"Ten thousand dollars," Kurt stated, "preferably in cash. I will, however, accept a CD or other letter of credit."

"Ten _thousand_ dollars!"

"A small price to pay." A beat. "Unless you want me to cry rape. I'm sure you were a smart boy and used a condom, but I'm sure my friend here won't mind helping me with some physical trauma." Kurt smiled sweetly at Puck. "Would you?"

"If you want my dick, babe, all you have to do is ask."

"This is... I can't believe... There's something wrong with you," Mr. Schuester stated, hands dropping to the desk. "I can't... I don't have that kind of money."

"Get it," Kurt stated firmly, all traces of 'teenage boy' gone from his voice, "by Friday. Take out a personal loan, I don't care. You will get that money."

That said, Kurt turned on his heel and walked away. Puck stepped aside and opened the door for him, throwing a last smirk over his shoulder before he followed the other man out into the hall. They left the Spanish teacher sitting in his classroom. Photos tucked neatly away into his bag, Kurt reached out and took Puck's hand.

"I think you said something about a bathroom stall...?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

* * *

In some ways the game was too easy to play. Acting the shy virgin, giving off all the right signals. He kissed with just the right amount of hesitancy and lingered afterwards, he knew how to keep his touch light and his lips plump and kissable. He was master of the coy striptease, knew that with his body waxed he looked even younger with his clothes off. That had been Puck's idea, the waxing. Undressed, with the right expression on his face, from the waist up Kurt barely looked old enough to be sixteen.

There was a system he had, put in place years ago back when the con had become an occupation. A set of behavioural rules and cues to follow that kept work separate from intimacy and still gave the mark the security of infatuation. Always play the virgin. Never allow penetration. And for god's sake don't let on that you're only in it for the money. Kurt also had a set of rules for Puck to follow, but he doubted that his boyfriend actually followed any of them. So far it had never been an issue.

Afterwards Kurt made sure to linger. He'd done it before, which meant Ryerson went to sleep easily enough even with Kurt still in the house. Armed with the other man's login details Kurt slipped into the study and scheduled a bank transfer from Ryerson's account to a foreign account, setting the release date for 1pm tomorrow during school hours. He tagged the entry as 'yacht purchase' to give the authorities something to scoff about if they were ever called in, then logged out and shut everything down.

He slipped back into the bedroom and woke up the other man long enough to explain that he needed to get back home and was having a friend he trusted come to get him.

Kurt dressed properly and ran off to meet Puck in the corolla where he was waiting two blocks away. He changed out of his designer wear in the back seat, knowing that it was early enough that Burt would probably still be up. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and swiped off the hint of foundation on his face, then climbed into the front seat with his partner.

"I'm sure I've said this before," he said, "but that was possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever done. And that includes Dr. O'Brien and his strange fetishes."

Puck smirked at him. He popped open the glove box, where a roll of mints and a hip flask were already waiting for Kurt's consumption. "Next time I'll swing by with the camera. How's that?"

"I don't hear you comforting me. I just said that was the most disgusting thing I've ever done and I did it for you."

Puck took a hand from the wheel and rubbed Kurt's thigh. "I'm so in love with you right now, babe."

Kurt rolled his eyes but didn't take the hand away. He was too busy peeling foil away from the roll of mints. "I've always been pissed off by how calm you are."

"Liar. Bitch, you love it."

Kurt did love it, but in times like this when what he really wanted was a bit of sympathy and someone to blame all it did was piss him off. He sighed, breath coming out cool on his tongue thanks to the taste of spearmint. "Well, finally there isn't going to be a next time here."

"So when Schuester coughs up we'll be out of here... with about forty thousand to show for it." Puck glanced at Kurt, "that's enough to get us out of trouble."

Kurt slumped back against the car seat. "God I hate small towns."

"It's got as many residents as we'll have dollars. That's not small town."

"No. It just feels small town." Kurt paused a moment, then looked at his partner. "You realise all of this has to happen at once. As soon as Schuester coughs up we need to get the hell out of here. I don't know how long it will take Ryerson to realise his savings account has suddenly gone missing."

"I know." Puck flashed him a grin. "Makes you feel alive."

"I hate you. You're a terrible influence on me."

"Yeah, I hate you too. I curse the day I blew you in the showers."

Kurt shook his head, deciding he wasn't in the mood to rise to the teasing. He couldn't help but feel bad for how he was using his brother's hospitality, and how quickly he would have to leave. "Maybe someday I'll introduce you to my family," Kurt said, doubting that it would ever happen.

Puck snorted. "Hey guys, this is the punk asshole I met in prison. We rob people for a living." He shook his head, kissed his fingers and touched them to Kurt's cheek. "Don't sweat the family stuff, Princess. I'm happy being your dirty little secret."

.

* * *

.

The very second Kurt turned his key in the lock he knew something was wrong. Years and years of lies had given him a sixth sense for when he was caught out – ignoring that instinct was what had gotten him into trouble last time. Kurt hesitated, wondering if he shouldn't turn right back around and grab Puck before getting the hell out of there. He took a split second to think. There were no suspiciously plain cars around, and Burt was family. He wouldn't rat out his own brother without asking for an explanation first.

With that in mind Kurt pushed open the door and stepped inside. His suspicions were proved right when he saw his brother waiting for him at the kitchen table, a letter bearing the McKinley High letterhead open in front of him.

"It said Mr. Hummel," Burt said dryly. "I assumed it would be something generic, like a charity drive. Turns out they want to inform Mr. Hummel that his son Kurt is going to be nominated for a language scholarship award."

Well, crap. On two levels. Not only would an award application put his name into files he really didn't want to be in, but clearly Burt had discovered part of his masquerade. Kurt took a deep breath. "Burt, I can explain."

"Explain?" Burt repeated, already sounding pissed off. "Explain that you've been pretending to be sixteen years old? Attending high school? For what – to seduce dumb kids? Because if it turns out you're a pedo so help me, Kurt..."

"No! It's definitely not like that!" The irony of it didn't escape him, but Kurt suppressed the urge for bitter laughter and instead bit his bottom lip. "It's about money," he admitted. It was best, he thought, to give at least enough of the truth that it wouldn't sound like he was hiding anything.

"Money?" Burt stood, chair scraping against the kitchen floor. "How the hell does pretending to be a school kid add up to money?"

Kurt shook his head. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking twitchy thoughts. "Burt... the truth is..." He took a deep breath, unable to meet his brother's eyes. "I owe a lot of money. To the kind of people who won't just harass me over the phone if they don't get paid. It's why I came here, to get out of the city and lay low while I figured something out." Kurt sighed, telling the absolute truth for once as he admitted; "These people have connections. They'll track me down sooner or later, and then they'll want their money back. Or they'll want blood."

"Jesus, Kurt!" Clearly shocked, Burt stared at his younger brother.

Kurt could see the wheels turning, the rose coloured glasses lifting. After this his brother would never think of him the same way again. Kurt wouldn't be the successful, cultured, socialite businessman that he pretended to be at family gatherings. It hurt a little, more than it should have for someone like him, to think that he was losing that. "I figured a sixteen year old Kurt Hummel was less likely to raise any red flags." He paused, and added a quaver to his voice. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

Burt sank back into his chair at the table, leaving Kurt standing there nervously on the other side. The elder Hummel was silent for a long time, long enough that it started to seem like he didn't believe the story. Then he slumped back a little further in his chair. "How much?"

"What?"

"How much do you owe, Kurt."

"... forty thousand dollars."

"Christ."

"I need help, Burt," Kurt pleaded, hoping to imply some kind of drug habit or gambling problem. The tears that leapt to his eyes at the thought of losing his brother's respect were more real than fake. "I just... I swear I'll clean up my act. Just don't blow my cover. I can do this, I just need more time."

Kurt's pleading eyes did the trick better than he was expecting. Burt rubbed his face, then stated plainly; "I can give you ten thousand. You can make a good faith payment with that, so they wont come after you so hard..."

"I..." He hadn't been planning for that. Pride reared its ugly head, making Kurt feel small and rat like. But he thought about what he'd have said to Puck if he turned down an offer like this. As much as it made him feel like the worst kind of scum he couldn't turn it down. "Th-thankyou," Kurt stuttered, calling himself named in his head. "Burt, I... You have no idea how much that means."

"I'll write you a cheque tomorrow," Burt said, sounding tired. He pointed at his brother. "I expect you to stop this schoolkid act as soon as you hear back from these people. If they don't take the money and back off we're going to the police, understand?"

Kurt couldn't find it in his withered little heart to tell his brother that if he went to the police they'd just laugh, or possibly arrest him. He still didn't know if O'Brien had filed that fraud charge despite getting all his money back. _My life is complicated_, he thought dryly.

"There's something else, while we're doing confessions." Kurt sat down opposite his brother. "I have a boyfriend."

"That's not big news, Kurt. Everyone's known you were gay since you turned twelve and wore a tiara instead of a party hat."

"Don't remind me. No. The news is that his name is Puck, he has a record, and rocks a mohawk like it's still 1996."

Burt raised an eyebrow. His lips twitched. The tension was successfully broken. "You're dating a punk?"

"Named Puck."

"Should I even dare to ask where you met him?"

"Probably not," Kurt advised, arms crossed on top of the table. He thought back to his first couple of weeks in state, dodging conflict with quick words and big wide eyes, not naive enough to think he could get away with playing the odds forever. To a shower stall almost the same as the kind in a school, a flash of tattoos and a tight, olive-skinned ass. Eye-sex over the divider. Quick, semi-anonymous fucking before Kurt realised his mohawked thug was the only guy in the entire block who wasn't underestimating him. "It's not the most romantic story I could tell."

Burt probably assumed it had to do with drugs or gambling. He sighed. It was the same sort of sound you'd expect to hear from a disappointed parent, or maybe someone who'd just had their illusions shattered. His perfect, successful, intelligent little brother had turned out to be a lot less successful and perfect than he'd always appeared.

"I don't have a drug problem," Kurt blurted, feeling strange because his brother's opinion shouldn't matter so much when all he had to offer were lies. "That's not what this is. I don't use drugs. This debt, it has nothing to do with that."

"Gambling then," Burt rumbled, frowning at the table top. He sighed again and stood. "I think we could both do with a drink. You need to tell me about all of this, Kurt. When this is sorted out we're going to get you some help."

Kurt didn't try to argue. He knew there was no use in that. When he skipped town Burt would think it was because he hadn't wanted to admit he really had a problem. Like a real addict. Maybe he was, Kurt mused. Maybe he was addicted to the chase, to the game. "I... have a habit of playing the odds," Kurt hedged. "I place bets, some of them long shots. Most of the time they work out, I'm lucky that way. Sometimes they don't. Recently... Well, my luck hasn't been so good."

Burt placed a beer down on the table in front of Kurt. "Just don't tell me you have a drinking problem."

Kurt thought about his mints-and-vodka routine. A casual beer after dinner. He shook his head. "No, I think it's pretty safe to say I don't have a drinking problem."

"What's your game? Horses, craps, card games?"

"Anything," Kurt replied frankly. "Anything I think I can win."

That was his problem. That arrogance. It disgusted him a little that even now he was playing the game, gambling against Burt actually finding out what he did for a living or discovering his sole (not-so-small either) conviction. Kurt Hummel, liar extraordinaire. Normally he'd be proud of his ability to stretch and wring the truth. Family made everything about it seem cheap. Everything led back to some kind of pseudo-prostitution – if he wasn't selling his body he was selling his soul, or selling pretty lies. Kurt sold an image and got paid in blackmail. He hoped Burt never found out who he really was.

Burt was silent a moment, sipping his beer. "That career as a business banker...?"

"Fake," Kurt replied dryly. "I took business in college. That's the extent of that truth."

Silence fell over the kitchen, too heavy to comfortably break. There was too much that could be said, too much that Kurt needed to be kept quiet.

"I know," he said eventually, "this must be a disappointment..."

Burt shook his head, but couldn't seem to find anything to say. Finally he stood. "I think I'm going to go to bed. Remember, Kurt. As soon as you hear back –"

"I don't plan on being a schoolboy longer than I have to," Kurt replied honestly.

He waited until his brother had left the room before he drained the last of his beer and left the table. He flicked off the kitchen light and headed to the basement in the dark. This wasn't the first time Kurt had conned his family – it was just the first time it had led to money. Somehow he found his way to the bed without turning on any lights. He collapsed onto the mattress, sighed softly, and dug out his phone. The brightness of the screen made him squint against the sudden light as he composed a text to his partner.

'_Ten thousand from Burt. Tell me I'm not a bad person_.'

Two minutes later he got the reply; '_youre the most beautiful liar ive ever met If you want to be good you shouldn't be with me'_

He stared at the message on his phone for a long time before he sent anything back. '_Better bad together. We need to shake down Schuester for the rent asap_.'

Kurt put his phone down on the bedside table and rolled over. It buzzed once more before he fell asleep but he couldn't be bothered rolling over again to check it. The message would hold until morning.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
-In this world babygate never happened because Puck wasn't there in Lima.  
-Burt is Kurt's brother, not his father.

* * *

"Hey, Slacker! I've got something for you."

Puck stopped what he was doing and looked over his shoulder at the woman standing by the back door. She was dressed in a blue tracksuit today, one hand on her hip, the other holding a single piece of paper in the size of a money order. Puck had to grin at that. He dropped the hand trowel and got up from where he was kneeling in the garden bed, slipped his gardening gloves off and tucked them into a pocket.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And you better hurry up before I change my mind."

Puck rolled his eyes. "As if you'd change your mind about me, old lady."

"Watch it, you sad sorry excuse for a juvenile delinquent." Sue's lip curled, "call me old again and I might just tear this little piece of freedom into tiny little pieces just to watch your dreams fade into dust."

"That'd be one hell of an expensive revenge," Puck replied. He plucked the paper from Sue's hand, proving that he had her held in the palm of his hand when she didn't react past watching his face when he read it. Puck whistled. "So this little bit of paper is worth twelve grand?" He grinned at her. "Sue, you got no idea how much this means to me."

"I think I can guess." Sue's mouth quirked into a smile, the expression wiped off her face just a second later. She clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't go getting all emotional on me. Just get that posted, come back with a tub of appletini power boost and I'll consider it even."

"Done," Puck said. He leaned in close and dropped a kiss on her mouth. "You're the best woman I ever met. And I mean that."

He didn't mean it at all.

.

* * *

.

The trouble with the money order was obvious. It sat in the passenger seat anchored by Puck's wallet, a piece of paper worth twelve thousand dollars. Money laundering wasn't exactly a speciality of his. Cash was easy, cash you could just spend in bits and pieces or keep making small, regular deposits like it was your weekly wage. Bank transfers were even easier, with enough accounts and enough references the money would get lost in a sea of paperwork – or, heck, you just called it a purchase, paid the tax, and that was that. Cash and accounts were easy. Money orders were noticeable.

If you went in and cashed one, anywhere, it would automatically be a red flag. Not necessarily a red flag saying that you broke the law, but the kind of red flag where people remembered your name. It would be very hard to forget that big guy with the mohawk who just cashed an order for twelve thousand dollars.

Of course, if he'd asked Sue for the same amount split into several money orders that too would have rang out as suspicious.

Stuck. That was what he was. He just hoped that either Kurt would have something figured out or that MacGrady wouldn't be pissed that part of his money was being sent as a slip of paper that happened to be worth a lot of money.

Puck parked the corolla in the school parking lot. He took a moment to just sit in the car, head tilted back far enough that he was staring at the roof lining. The truth was they just needed a better way of handling finances altogether. There was nothing wrong with doing six months work for forty thousand dollars or more, but the way they lived meant they were forever living hand to mouth. Someday soon he should breach the subject with Kurt and discuss that hazy eventuality of being old.

With that depressing thought in mind Puck straightened up again. He stuffed the money order into the glove box and tucked his wallet into his jeans. Right now he had better things to think about.

Like putting the squeeze on a certain Spanish teacher.

Puck walked onto school grounds like he owned the place, ignoring the few students who were in between classes and acting as if he were there every day. Even with his mohawk most of the students didn't even look at him. They might have if his arms had been bare, but in jeans and a sweater Puck looked average enough to pass as unremarkable.

He made his way to the Spanish classroom and stopped outside to check whether there was a class inside. There was. He tapped on the window anyway, smirked when Mr. Schuester looked up.

Puck could hear the 'just a second, guys' that the teacher threw to his class, then Schuester strode across the classroom and opened the door just enough to hiss; "What do you want?"

"Just come to give you a reminder," Puck replied casually, hands hooked into his pockets. "You're on a deadline, you know."

"I'm in the middle of a class. This is school property. You can't –"

"Blah fucking blah," Puck interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I'm not the married man who wanted to screw a sixteen year old boy. I'm your god damn blackmailer, which means you don't get to tell me what I can and can't do. I know your home number, Schuester. If you want to play rough with me then I can call your wife right now and tell her all about it."

Schuester didn't say a word, jaw tilted upwards at a stubborn angle. Inside the classroom the students were beginning to get restless.

"Do you have the money yet?" Puck pressed.

"It's coming," Mr. Schuester said. "You'll have it by Friday."

"Good. That's what I like to hear."

"Ok?"

"Ok."

Schuester pulled away from the door and shut it again, turning back to his class. Puck watched long enough to see the man put on a falsely cheerful expression and clap his hands together to get the class' attention. Then he turned and walked back down the hallway towards the exit. He wondered which classes Kurt had today, shaking his head a little at the idea of having to stay in school these last few days just to keep up appearances.

That was one of the many troubles with this kind of con. Sometimes, like this time, Kurt was forced to reveal his true intentions days before they had any money in hand. Their mark knew full well that Kurt wasn't the innocent boy that he was pretending to be, at least that Kurt was obviously in on the plan and had purposefully seduced him. He might still think that Kurt was only sixteen or he might not. Either way the only thing that stopped him from going to the police was the idea of his own humiliation.

Kurt still had to keep his head down and attend classes until money changed hands, until the con was over and they could leave (quickly, before the man they'd just blackmailed got up the courage to tell someone).

Puck had the easy job now. All he had to do was go back to Sylvester and make her feel like the centre of the earth. He could leave whenever he needed to. She didn't even have his real name. He hadn't even needed to rent an apartment this time, he could just check out of the motel at any old time of the day or night and be gone within the hour.

Kurt had the family. Kurt had to come up with excuses.

Thinking about his partner, Puck pulled out his phone and fired off a quick text in the parking lot. '_12thou in hand_,' he wrote, '_how u holding up?_'

Kurt was in the middle of biology when his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. Careful to keep his motions hidden behind his textbook he slipped the phone from his jacket and unlocked the keypad. Two unread messages lay in his inbox and he remembered that he'd never checked that text from the night before. He read the most recent first, then backtracked to the one time stamped at 11;47pm. '_leave it to me princess. all you have to do is keep your head down and ill take care of the rest'_.

The sentiment made him feel oddly affectionate, though he also supposed it could have been from inhaling chemical fumes for the past twenty minutes in this god-awful lab. Kurt thought about it for a minute, about everything that had happened in the past couple of days and how quickly the end of being in Lima seemed to be approaching. They now had twelve thousand dollars in hand, and by now that bank transfer would have gone through. Burt would have a cheque waiting for him either tonight or the next morning, and Schuester... would be paid up by Friday. Altogether that was what they owed and a few thousand besides.

As soon as Schuester paid, he mused, they would be out of there. Kurt would have his things packed up by Friday morning just to be sure. He may even stow his suitcases in the back of his van to make things easier. If, he realised, he wanted Puck to actually meet his brother it was now or never.

Kurt stared at the screen of his phone as he tried to come to a decision. He stared so long that he barely avoided having the phone confiscated when the biology teacher walked past. Somehow he managed to hide it under his book just a split second before she looked at him.

Smiling innocently into the face of the sixty year old science teacher Kurt came to a decision. Puck and Burt were to be kept separate at all times. Kurt may have exposed his brother to parts of his life that he'd hoped Burt would never see... but Puck was something else, something raw, hard-edged, and his alone. He didn't need any more complications.

Dinner that night at the Hummel household was tense.

Burt had come home from the shop early enough to see Kurt arrive home from school dressed in one of his 'young' outfits. Kurt had paused in the doorway before defiantly walking down to the basement to change into something more appropriate. He'd reappeared twenty minutes later in tan slacks and a white button-up, hair brushed back from his face, and had watched terrible soap operas in the living room while Burt remained in the kitchen.

Kurt felt nervous when he sat at the table, a coil of tension in the pit of his stomach that he vaguely recognised as something like guilt. It had been so long since he actually felt guilty about anything that he didn't know whether he should be relieved or angry; relieved that he could still feel it at all, or angry at himself for feeling it in the first place.

What little conversation there was over the table was stilted. Awkward.

Kurt asked about the garage. Burt turned the tables and asked him how school was.

"Dull," Kurt replied, refusing to let on that his brother's question bothered him, "the curriculum hasn't changed much in twelve years."

"I don't expect it would," Burt said, methodically cutting his steak into bite-sized pieces. It wasn't how he normally ate, which was how Kurt knew that he was also feeling this awkward tension.

"Children haven't changed much either," Kurt added, a touch rebelliously.

He couldn't help but be shocked when Burt looked across the table at him, a frown on his face. "You're not being bullied are you?"

"No," Kurt said, too shocked by the honest concern to tell the truth. "No, I just meant they have the same cliques. They talk about all the same things. I've been spending my free time alone... I'm not too interested in talking about celebrities and sports."

"Well. That's good... That you're not being bullied."

"I never was..." That was a lie, but Kurt justified it to himself with the reminder that it had never affected him like being bullied was supposed to effect children. "I know better," he added, which sounded more like the truth. He knew better than to take it to heart. Life was just easier that way.

Kurt excused himself after dinner and retreated downstairs. He spent a good amount of time in the tiny little bathroom, showering before soaking in moisturiser. Wrapped in a comfortable bathrobe he emerged and sat on the bed reading, not quite game enough to venture back upstairs. He was just thinking about going to bed for an early night when he heard Burt coming down the stairs.

Burt walked slowly, reluctantly, and held something in his hands that looked suspiciously like a cheque book.

"Burt..." Kurt bit his lip, stopping himself from saying what he really wanted to – that he didn't need the money, that his brother didn't have to help cover his debts. One day his pride wouldn't let him stop, and he knew that would probably be his downfall.

"Here," Burt said, ripping a cheque from the book, signed, dated, and written in for the amount of ten thousand dollars. "It's cashable now. I figured you wouldn't have a problem wiring the money."

Reluctant fingers plucked the cheque from Burt's hand. Kurt scanned the piece of paper, then let his hand drop into his lap. "Burt. I don't know how I can thank you."

"Get your life together," Burt replied, sounding serious enough that Kurt wondered if he'd rehearsed what he was going to say. "Get yourself in some kind of rehab, get cleaned up, and remember I won't always be able to bail you out like this."

"I understand." Kurt looked down at his knees, index finger tracing Burt's signature. "And I will. I promise."

As Kurt listened to his brother walk back up the basement stairs he sort of wished that he could put himself in rehab and clean up his life. But that wasn't the easy road, it wasn't the road he knew how to navigate. He wouldn't come clean. He wouldn't change his life. He'd just contact his brother six months from now with some story about rehabilitation and a stable job, slowly paying off his debts and living a respectable life.

Or maybe he wouldn't.

Maybe, six months from now, he'd be living in a new apartment with Puck and in the middle of working a new con. He'd come home every night to a couple of shots of vodka, a warm bed, and a man who knew all of his faults and loved him for them. And in the daytime he'd go out wearing the uniform of a private school, playing little boy blue with the pervy headmaster or conning some rich boy into handing over Daddy's credit card details.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
Rachel's rant is not foreshadowing.

* * *

Puck returned to Sue's house with the promised tub of appletini flavoured protein powder and a story about post-office hell that was really just a retelling of a childhood excursion to buy stamps. Sue had no reason to disbelieve him. She had no reason not to think that he wasn't anything but genuine. He'd already flat out told her about his time in jail and his recent status as a drifter, he made no apologies for his faults and boasted about his good features with the same kind of arrogant confidence that she used.

So what if most of it wasn't true? Puck was a good liar.

He stayed for lunch. Sandwiches for him, two protein shakes for her, and spent part of the afternoon in bed with her. So far she hadn't expressed any concerns about the fact that he seemed more interested in going down on her than actually getting anything in return. He only had a very short, rapidly shrinking window of time until he could be out of Lima for good. If she happened to get over herself long enough to wonder about his sexual appetite (or lack thereof) he'd just say he had a fetish.

Puck doubted she'd even think about it.

He was just getting ready to leave, shirt and shoes back on, car keys in hand, when she dropped the surprise on him.

"I want to get married."

Shocked, honestly not having expected anything of the sort, Puck floundered for a moment or two. "Excuse me?" he managed finally, realising with a surreal sense of panic just how desperately lonely this woman must have been before he came along. Too imperfect not to be real. "Did you just ask me to marry you?"

"No, genius. I told you I want to get married, implying that you have no choice." Sue looked deadly serious, her mouth set in a stubborn line, chin thrust forward as if daring him to tell her otherwise. She was nervous, he realised. Had probably said it on a whim. "You will move in here, you will be my fiancé, and when you are officially a citizen of the united states you will marry me in a small, intimate ceremony with only our closest admirers in attendance to weep over the fact that we're no longer available."

Puck hesitated, and he didn't panic over his hesitation because what guy in his right mind wouldn't hesitate over being asked to marry someone out of the blue and just as they were about to leave. "Sue," he started, "are you sure you _want _that?"

"You want a picket fence apple pie American dream life," she pointed out, brazenly barrelling forwards as if she wasn't secretly worried that he might say no. "What's more like the very embodiment of the American Dream than Sue Sylvester?"

Puck was silent for a moment, thinking through his options. He saw the confidence in her face begin to waver and figured he might have let the silence go on too long. "I'll move in on Saturday," he blurted, giving her the first real-sounding answer he could think of. "So you better have some room cleared for my shit. I'm not changing my name either, so don't go thinking you can talk me into being Noah Sylvester."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Alvarez."

Puck crossed to room to kiss her. "You better be ready for me," he told her, smirking as he backed off, "I'm a jealous, needy piece of hot manflesh."

"If you think you can handle Sue in all her glory be here at eight am sharp on Saturday morning. We have some moving to do."

Puck left the house wondering if this was how Kurt felt just before he turned back into himself. He respected his partner even more if that were the case. As little as he actually cared for her he couldn't help but feel bad for Sylvester. She'd fallen for his act hook, line and sinker. But she'd stopped being useful the second she handed over the money. The only reason he had to keep her happy now was to make sure she didn't call the cops on him.

He'd be long gone by the time Saturday morning rolled around anyway. She'd never know why he'd done it, and without his real name it was unlikely she'd ever find him again.

Puck turned the key in the ignition and reached over to turn up the corolla's sound system as loud as it would go. He drove off in a haze of punk metal, anarchists screaming at him from the speakers. He kind of got why Kurt was always drinking vodka after his trysts. Right now Puck just really wanted a drink.

.

* * *

.

Thursday was difficult to get through. Kurt largely just went through the motions, keeping a keen eye on Schuester from a distance just to make sure the man wasn't acting suspicious. He pretended to be attentive in class, answering questions when he was called on and privately disgusted that he didn't even need to try to get most of them right. Having gone through the same subject matter over and over he could practically recite the entire curriculum for this grade by heart. If the con ever fell through he could just get Puck to forge him a degree and sign on as a substitute teacher.

At least until he came up with some new scheme. Kurt wasn't keen on a teacher's pay grade.

He took a slushy to the face in the hallway before math, the first time he'd ever experienced such a creative method of bullying. For a moment he just stood there in the hallway, gasping like a fish as the ice stung his face. The cold was like a slap, the hurt echoing against his skin long after the initial shock had faded. The only consolation he had was the fact that his shirt today was black and wouldn't show the stains.

"Welcome to loserville," a familiar voice sniped at him and he looked around just in time to see the blonde girl, Quinn, sashaying down the hall with her friends. "Population, you."

"You'll grow up to be a bored, fat housewife whose husband cheats on her with the pool boy!" He called after her retreating red and white form. From the way she was walking, a happy queen bitch bounce in her step, he doubted she heard him at all.

The closest set of toilets happened to be labelled 'girls', but given the time and the way the hall was rapidly clearing with students rushing off to class Kurt doubted anyone would be in there. He ducked inside, took a deep breath, and turned to assess the damage in the mirror.

He was blue. His hair was a sticky wet mess glued to his forehead, his eyes red and watery, his shirt wet with melting ice crystals.

"Clearly the janitorial staff in this school are kept busy," he muttered to himself. A small, bitchy comment because he couldn't do anything else.

With a sigh Kurt began unbuttoning his shirt. It would need to be soaked and dried, which meant he would need to miss math. He'd also need to wash his face, possibly his hair, and since he'd been taking the bus (a student driving a van was a touch suspicious) he couldn't just leave school and get himself sorted out before coming back.

He was going to need to grab his emergency makeup case from his locker. Washing his face would wash off the foundation he had carefully applied to help make himself look younger. Without it he would lose a couple of years, looking just a little too old to be sixteen. At least nobody would see him, he thought, since they'd all be in class.

He was just running his shirt under the faucet when the door to the bathroom swung suddenly open. Kurt looked up, his face still unwashed and blue, expression darkening when he saw just who had stepped into the bathroom. He really didn't need this sort of aggravation. Not when he was so close to being done with McKinley High for good.

"First time being slushied?" Rachel Berry asked without a shred of sympathy in her voice and seemingly not bothered that he was in a _girl's_ toilet. "Normally I keep a set of spare clothes in my locker, but obviously this being your first time you wouldn't be as prepared."

"What do you want?" Kurt asked dryly, "I am really not in the mood right now."

"There's no need to be rude." Rachel paused, as if she were expecting some kind of response. "You're no longer a rival for my solos in Mr. Ryerson's travesty of a glee club," she added, "so you have no need to worry about my having ulterior motives. I'm possibly the only person in this school who knows exactly how to get blue number 6 off their skin without scrubbing almost to the bone."

"I'm wearing makeup," Kurt replied dismissively. "All I have to do is wipe it off and use a little makeup remover."

"Oh." Rachel seemed to deflate just a little. She stayed standing in front of the stalls for a moment before finally turning and walking in to one of them.

Kurt ignored her and continued rinsing his shirt. He carefully wrung the water out of the fabric and hung it over the hand drier to help the fabric dry out, then set to work using damp toilet paper and paper towels to take the mixture of blue dye and foundation off his face. A toilet flushed and Rachel emerged from the stall. She marched right up to the sink beside his and washed her hands with methodical precision. He was almost done cleaning his face when she spoke up.

"I don't care, you know."

"About what?" Kurt asked, making sure to sound as bored as humanly possible.

"About what people think of me. I'm amazing and talented and one day I'm going to leave this place and become famous and everyone back home will feel awful for making fun of me. Well, maybe not awful," Rachel clarified a moment later, "but they'll regret it when I talk about my high school years on Oprah and Entertainment Tonight."

"And this concerns me why?"

"I just wanted you to know that I know what it's like. To be different. To have people not understand how amazing you are just because you're not a jock or a cheerleader."

Kurt sighed. Face clean, hair wet and pushed back from his face, he knew he looked different. Older. But right now he was annoyed enough not to care. "Rachel, I don't care. I don't care if kids in high school like me or not and I don't' care if they don't understand. Shouldn't you be in class right now?"

"Shouldn't you?" She countered. And squinted at him. "Are you older?"

"I'm no older than I was when I enrolled." Kurt passed her and went to check on his shirt, touching the material to see how long he'd have to wait before it was dry enough to wear. "I am _so _glad this shirt isn't dry-clean only."

"Were you kept back a couple of years?" Rachel asked, giving him on odd look.

"That's none of your business."

"Just how old _are_ you anyway?"

"If I told you I'd have to kill you." The shirt wouldn't be ready until at least the next bell. Kurt sighed. He glanced at his face in the mirror. "I need my makeup bag."

"From the looks of that shirt you won't be getting it any time soon, not unless you want to walk around the school dressed in that." Rachel directed a pointed look towards Kurt's very thin, almost see-through black undershirt. Frankly he was amazed that someone with her fashion sense would even see anything wrong with it. "I could get it for you," she offered, "if you give me your locker combination."

Kurt recognised the hint of slyness from countless other 'sneaky' teenagers. "So you can snoop through my things?" He couldn't help a small smirk when she blushed. "I don't have anything important in there anyway," he told her, and gave her his combination. "If everything goes well I'll be leaving this weekend."

"Why?" Rachel blurted. "Where are you going?"

"Away," Kurt answered, looking at himself in the mirror and picturing a private school uniform. "Preferably nowhere within spitting distance of Lima."

Rachel looks like she wants to ask more questions, to get down to the bottom of things like she's Nancy Drew and he's the next in a long line of fumbling villains that she's determined to expose. Eventually though she just turns and leaves the bathroom. He half expects that she won't come back but five minutes later she's there again, his emergency makeup kit in hand.

She holds it out expectantly, takes a deep breath, then opens her mouth to deliver the most baffling tirade he's ever heard come from a high school student during one of his cons;

"I know it's none of my business what you do with your life, but I just want to let you know that one of my dad is a lawyer and we have _extremely_ close ties to the ACLU. So, just in case you wanted to know, I have access to a slew of legal backing that I'm willing to take advantage of. And now that I've said that I _also_ want you to know that I've been thinking about your strange behaviour in the few minutes since I went to get this makeup bag and I've realised two very important facts. One, that you don't actually have anything in your locker except for a couple of textbooks and a receipt for six packs of sugar free mint chewing gum which tells me that you've either got no personality at all or you knew you wouldn't be here very long. Two is that you don't care what people think but you spent an awful lot of time with Mr. Ryerson until suddenly you quit the glee club and started spending a lot of time with Mr. Schuester. So it's lucky that you are leaving soon because I will figure out what's going on sooner or later and I suspect that whatever it is it's something you wouldn't want Principal Figgins knowing about."

Kurt waited a few seconds after she stopped, just to see whether she'd start up again. He had less than twenty-four hours before Schuester would supposedly hand over the money. Rachel had nothing but suspicion and an empty locker. He took the makeup case from her. "Thank you for bringing me my makeup Rachel. I'm almost one hundred percent sure you won't be seeing me on Monday."

"Good," Rachel stated. "Because I will be looking."

With that, rather weak in his opinion, threat she turned on her heel and walked out of the bathroom. Left alone Kurt turned back to the mirror. He wasn't losing his touch, he told himself. It was because he'd been pressed for time, he'd had just weeks to do what he normally did in months. God, he couldn't wait to get the hell out of here.

"We're going on vacation," he said to himself in the mirror, carefully applying a new coat of foundation, "as soon as all of this is sorted out. We'll buy ourselves a tent and a case full of vodka and spend a week camping illegally and screwing outdoors."

Kurt would just be happier when he was back to living with his partner again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
The next chapter will be the last.

* * *

It was raining on Friday morning.

The sky was nothing but grey as far as the eye could see and puddles made walking in anything less protective than gumboots a game of wet-sock roulette. Kurt only had one raincoat this season, a bright red tailored trench coat that was shiny and crinkled like plastic when he moved. He wore it reluctantly, paired with a high-collared white shirt and a black bowtie. Reluctant only because Burt had decided that the rain meant that he'd be gracious and drive Kurt to McKinley high.

Even if Kurt didn't already know it Burt's slightly raised eyebrows would have been an all too obvious indication that he'd never seen his baby brother dressed in something like this. Red raincoat, red gumboots, made up to look like he was sixteen and about to step out onto a runway rather than attend a public highschool.

"Don't say a word," Kurt threatened, finger pointing at his brother. "I never get to wear this coat," he lied, "So I'm going to enjoy it while I can."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Burt replied, holding up his hands. "Actually I was just going to ask how long you reckon it will be before you get a reply from that bookie."

"Today, actually," Kurt said, picking up his leather satchel. "I expect I'll be getting a call sometime this afternoon, so I should know by the time you get home from work. One way or another," he added dryly, "I'll know whether I'm in the clear."

"That's good. I'll be glad when you can stop pretending to be sixteen. Seeing you looking like that makes me feel old."

Kurt looked at his brother as they both stood in the entryway by the front door. Burt was dressed down in work coveralls that sported his name embroidered onto the left breast. In the v made by the open collar he could see the top of a plain grey t-shirt. Compared to him, with his designer raincoat and perfectly matched outfit, Burt looked dull and middle-class. And, Kurt realised, old enough to be his father. The thought of Burt as his father instead of his brother made his stomach churn.

Burt probably would have been a more attentive father than theirs was. Kurt might have actually turned out to be the wholesome and successful man he pretended to be.

"I'll be late if we don't leave now," Kurt stated, feeling awkward.

"Right," Burt said. He stepped forward and opened the door, leaving it for Kurt to close and lock. Just a couple of minutes later both Hummels sat in the front of Burt's pickup truck, the heater turned on low and pumping warm air onto their feet. Kurt never understood why Burt insisted on having warm feet but refused to run heat through the vents in the dash.

They didn't talk much on the short drive to McKinley. Instead Kurt listened to the radio talk show on Burt's favourite station, wondering how it was that in all the years since radio was invented popular stations had somehow degenerated into toilet humour and sexism during the morning commute. He'd even take Puck's terrible taste in music over this crap.

Thinking about Puck led Kurt back around to Mr. Schuester and the fact that he was supposed to pay up today. He started to think about when, and what they would need to do immediately afterwards, turning out the talk radio as he stared thoughtfully out the window at the rain.

Before he knew it Burt was pulling to a stop outside the school.

"Have you got everything?" Burt asked, a touch of dry humour on a rainy day. "Did you do all your homework?"

"I even have apples for my teachers," Kurt replied, sarcasm on overdrive. He smiled at Burt, expression softer. "Thankyou for doing this," he said softly, "for being so supportive."

Burt sighed. "Just go to school. You can tell me what the bookie said at dinner."

"Keep your fingers crossed for me," Kurt said as he opened the door to step out into the rain. "And I might have some good news at the end of the day."

He ran off through the car park without waiting for an answer and was inside the school building before the rain did too much damage to his makeup. Water droplets slid from his coat the floor, adding to the mess of water and mud that trailed in from the main doors. Some unlucky janitor was about to have a bad day, Kurt mused. On top of all the usual spills and stickiness from slushies the poor bastard would be mopping the floors all day just to keep on top of the muddy footprints.

.

* * *

.

Will Schuester had never carried an amount greater than two thousand dollars with him in his life, and even then that two thousand had been on a prepaid credit card and not in cash. When he'd made the withdrawal, a loan borrowed against his 401k, he'd instantly felt paranoid about the loan officer wondering what he needed ten thousand in cash for. He'd started babbling about holiday plans then, nervously explaining that he was taking his wife on a second honeymoon because you only live once and travel rates were great right now and blah blah blah. He couldn't even remember half of what he'd said.

And now all of that cash was sitting in a brown paper bag in the bottom drawer of his desk, like some kind of home-made lunch.

He felt the absurd urge to write 'blackmail money' on the bag like some kind of sick anti-joke, but he wasn't confident enough to try it. Not with the threat of that mohawked thug on top of the dirt they had on him. Not that it was dirt. More like a smudge. A lapse of judgement that looked so much worse on camera than it had been in real life.

A lapse of judgement called Kurt Hummel. Who was now blackmailing him with the aid of an unknown man with a few tattoos and a mohawk. Who had threatened rape allegations and police involvement if Will didn't pay up. Kurt Hummel, who had seemed so fragile and innocent, was threatening to ruin his life if he didn't hand over a quarter of his yearly salary. He would have laughed if the situation wasn't so terrifying.

Having never done this before Will was unsure of the protocol here. Should he keep Kurt back for a few minutes after class and hand it over then? Or ask to see him at lunchtime? Or should he arrange the exchange for the end of the school day, presumably to prevent anything from happening to the bag of money in the meantime. It would be safer in a teacher's desk than it would be in a student's locker... But then Kurt had that shoulder bag, and it was possible he planned on putting it straight in there and carrying it around all day.

Will was getting a headache.

He'd been getting a lot of them this week.

Three classes in was when the cause of his headaches sauntered into his classroom to take a seat in the front row. Kurt looked calm, just the same as he had when Will had first spoken to him. An intelligent loner with all of the usual troubles that came with being an openly gay teen in a smallish town. The difference was in the way Kurt flashed him a small, meaningful smirk before opening his notebook. It reminded Will that whatever the boy was 'innocent' was nowhere on that list.

Will tried his best not to let Kurt's presence distract him, but still found himself making a couple of mistakes that luckily went unnoticed by his inattentive students. He was relieved when the bell rang, the emotion quickly replaced by nerves when he realised it was now or never.

He cleared his throat. "Kurt, may I speak to you for a moment? I'll write you a note if you're late for your next class."

"Or course, Mr. Schuester," Kurt replied pleasantly, stepping up to his desk to wait patiently until the other students had gone. "I hope I'm about to hear some good news."

"I have the money," Will said, voice low. He was too afraid of someone overhearing to risk raising his voice any higher than a murmur. "I wasn't sure when I should give it to you, if I should ask you to see me during lunch or after school..."

"Now is fine," Kurt interrupted his musing, confident like this was something he did every other day and not remotely illegal or disturbing. "It's cash, isn't it?" Will nodded, and Kurt continued; "Then I'll skip next period and count it. If everything is there you can consider our interaction one with, and your little indiscretion will never come back to haunt you." A beat, and a smirk. "As long as you never try to tell the police."

Will felt his mouth go dry, a horrifying impotent rage bubbling up in his chest. He ignored the urge to yell at the boy and instead just opened up the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out the brown paper bag full of cash, dumped it in the middle of his desk, and looked at the boy expectantly.

Kurt reached out and took the bag, then opened it and peered inside. He crumpled up the top again, smiling sweetly. "For the moment you can think of our business as concluded. I'll let you know how my counting goes."

Will watched the boy stuff the paper bag full of cash into his satchel and slink out of the classroom. He sat down in his chair, slumped as low as he could get. He'd never felt lower in his life. He just hoped that was the end of it, that it was over and he could forget it ever happened.

.

* * *

.

Kurt couldn't count the money straight away and he didn't have a counting machine readily available. Instead of trying to find somewhere private enough to count thousands in cash he ducked into a bathroom and called Puck.

Puck answered on the fourth ring and Kurt could hear the unmistakeable sounds of canned sitcom laughter in the background, which he'd guess meant that Puck was currently at the motel.

"Schuester paid the money," Kurt told him, not mincing any words. "Come pick me up. We need to count it before we move."

"I'll be there in a jiff, babe."

"See you in the car park."

Kurt hung up and slipped his phone back into his jeans pocket. He checked himself in the mirror before he left the bathroom. A smug, flush-faced teenager in a red raincoat smirked out at him, shoulder bag clutched tight in his hands. Satisfied, Kurt marched out into the hallway. The halls were practically silent as he passed through them on his way to the front door. He saw only two other students, the rest of them either in class or off school grounds.

It was always different walking down an empty hallway than it was a crowded hall. The emptiness gave a sense of something forbidden, like he wasn't supposed to be there.

The fact that Kurt really wasn't just made his smirk grow a little wider and added a hint of a bounce to his step. As long as Schuester hadn't tried to cheat them, and Kurt doubted that he had, he wouldn't be coming back to this school on Monday. In fact, on Monday he'd be far, far away. Safe, and contemplating his next move in his very unorthodox career.

He stepped out of the front doors and paused a moment to take a breath. Next time he'd have his own damn car, he decided, even if they had to buy an old bomb and spend an hour a day on the engine just to make sure it would run. He wouldn't miss taking the bus, or waiting outside for Puck to arrive. It wasn't that he didn't like catching rides with his partner, it was the waiting alone in the middle of a car park on a miserable day that he didn't like. The rain had eased off since earlier that morning, reduced to tiny little droplets that fell in a light mist.

It was light enough that Kurt felt perfectly fine with walking out into it, headed for the entrance to the parking lot to make himself easier to find.

He was half way there when he discovered that he wasn't the only one playing hooky in the car park today.

.

* * *

.

Puck drove with the stereo turned up as loud as it would go, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. He slowed to a crawl outside McKinley high and reluctantly turned the sound down as he approached the car park. Being cited as a noise nuisance was the last thing they needed right now, with things so close to being over. He peered out the windshield, scanning the lot and looking for Kurt. He knew his partner would be wearing something bright, most likely red, as they'd both agreed plenty of times over that it was one of Kurt's best colours.

He was almost done with one circuit of the edge of the car park and beginning to wonder if Kurt was even there when he caught a flash of red in the corner of his eye. Puck put his foot down on the brakes and turned to look, frowning as he squinted through the rain-splattered glass.

As soon as he realised what he was seeing the engine was cut and he was out of the car.

That flash of red was Kurt being backed up against the dumpsters by a pair of letterman jackets who from the looks of things had already taken Kurt's bag and pushed him around a bit.

Puck crossed the car park at a run, boots pounding against the asphalt. This was a familiar scene; Kurt, cornered, by people who were larger than but definitely in no way better than himself, and with a god damn lot to lose. Puck reacted without thinking, without stopping to take a better look at the situation or reminding himself that these were just kids.

"Hey assholes," he called out as he slowed to a trot, "back away from the guy in the jacket and we can skip me bashing your faces in."

The guys turned, just enough to look at him without letting their target get away.

"Who are you and what do you care what we do to some fag?" One of the letterman jackets asked.

"Yeah," the other one added, "just walk away, man. This aint none of your business."

"It's my business if you're fucking with my boy."

"Your boy? Why don't you back off before we decide to beat on your gay ass too?"

"Fists up, dipshit. I'm about to wipe the floor with you."

That there was assault. And Puck was quick to follow through with the battery. He socked the closest guy square in the gut, an uppercut that drove the wind from his lungs and left him gasping. A left hook to the nose ensured he wouldn't be getting up in the next minute. The second guy, the one with the big mouth, was a little quicker on his feet. He managed to get his arms up before Puck was on him, and hit back hard enough that there would be a bruise blooming over his side tomorrow. Even so he was no match for Puck's experience. He wouldn't have lasted long even he'd thought to fight dirty like Puck did, instead he suffered a brutal knee to the groin followed by a punch to the face that hit with a sick crack that might have been from Puck's knuckle.

He'd hit bone. He knew that much. And he pulled back his fist and hit it again just to be sure.

"Puck!" Kurt cried out, and he looked up just in time to avoid most of a punch to the side of the head.

He slammed his fist into the front of the first guy's knee, feeling a sense of dark satisfaction when the guy buckled. Two boys on the asphalt, bloody-mouthed and black-eyed, while Puck stood on his feet barely bruised, knuckles on his right hand scraped bloody and raw.

"You will stay the fuck down," Puck told them, one finger pointing dangerously at the boys on the ground, "or I'll rip your cocks off and make you eat them."

Wisely, neither of the jackets made a move to get up.

Puck turned his attention back to Kurt and saw his partner nervously glancing up towards the school as he bent to retrieve his bag. When Kurt looked back at him his expression was decidedly less nervous and a helluva lot more pissed off. "We are going to have words," Kurt hissed at him, grabbing his arm and trotting him back to the corolla, "about why exactly it's a bad idea to beat up teenage boys in school parking lots."

"I just stopped you from being terrorised," Puck pointed out, already knowing it wouldn't do any good.

"You also risked getting arrested!" Kurt jumped into the driver's seat before Puck could get to it, forcing him to go around and slide into the passenger seat instead. "I don't care," Kurt announced as he tore out of the parking lot, "if that isn't ten thousand dollars. We're getting the hell out of here before either of those two file a police report."


	13. Chapter 13

**Title**: It's An Art (And We're Artists)  
**Warning**: Some swearing, absolute lack of ethics, sexualisation of teens, possible OOCness. Also Sandy.  
**Spoilers**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment and not intended to offend.

**Things you need to know**:  
This is the last chapter. As yet I do not plan on writing a sequel.

* * *

They stopped just long enough to do a rough count at the motel anyway. At least, Kurt counted while Puck rinsed his knuckles under cold water and then went about throwing his things back into the backpack they'd come out of. By the time he was done Kurt was most of the way through and Puck sat down on the edge of the bed to wait for him to finish up.

"I may have miscounted," Kurt announced finally, voice cool, "but I believe that's at least nine thousand five hundred, which is close enough."

"Good. So now we can get the hell out of here."

"I still need to get my things," Kurt replied, putting the bundles of cash neatly back into the paper bag they'd come from. "And I still need to speak to Burt. You're not allowed to come," he announced. "I'm mad at you."

"Again."

"Yes, again."

"You'll get over it," Puck shrugged and shouldered his backpack. "I'm going to check out of here. See you at the car."

"And don't think you can distract me with sex, asshole."

Puck rolled his eyes as he left the room. Kurt would cool off soon enough, he was certain of it. But in the meantime he'd have to deal with this prissiness for at least another day. At least until they were out of Lima and Puck wasn't likely to add another count of assault to his criminal history. He made small talk with the motel clerk as he signed out and paid the last of what he owed for his stay, dredging up the old backpacker story and claiming it was time to move on now that he'd made a few bucks from casual work in town.

By the time he got out of the office Kurt was already waiting in the car, stubbornly sitting in the driver's seat.

"Want to ditch this piece of shit before we get to your brother's?" Puck asked as he slid into the passenger seat, "or should I follow you out in it while you take the van?"

"You can take the plates off while I pack," Kurt replied coolly, looking out the front window instead of at him. "And ditch the car in town. I'll pick you up in the van at the Cafe on main street."

Puck let the rest of the drive fall into silence and swapped over into the driver's seat when Kurt got out of the car. He'd leave his partner to do all of the fussy work he needed to do to satisfy family and find a quiet place to take the plates from the car. He remembered just before dumping it to take the money order from the glove box and stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket. The walk to the main street cafe took him half an hour, and it was another hour after that before Kurt texted him to say that he was on his way.

When the van pulled up outside the cafe Puck already had two takeaway cups in a cardboard carrier. One was a plain house blend, the other one of Kurt's fancy-pants too good for anything less than a latte and marked with two Xs on the cup. He opened the van door one handed and got into the front passenger seat next to his partner.

"Medium non-fat with a shot of hazelnut," Puck announced, putting Kurt's coffee into the cup holder between the two front seats. He tossed his backpack over the seat and into the back, where it landed with a thump next to one of Kurt's neatly packed suitcases.

"Coffee is not going to make me feel better about you right now."

"Twelve thousand dollars," Puck added, pulling the money order from his pocket and dropping it on Kurt's lap.

Kurt fumbled for it one handed without taking his eyes off the road, brought the paper up to eye-level and glanced at it to make sure it was legit. "We're going to have to cash this tonight," he says finally, and hands it back. "Before your darling betrothed realises she's been jilted."

"Still," Puck answered, leaning back against the seat. "Twelve thousand bucks." He sipped his coffee, letting his bruised hand lie still on his lap. "We can call the debt settled, neither of us got arrested. I'd say that means you can't be mad at me but you'd just find something else to bitch about."

"Like the aggravated assault you just pulled in the parking lot of a public school?"

"They had it coming, Kurt." Puck looked at his partner and smirked. "Tell me you didn't totally want to see them get their heads bashed in."

Kurt was silent for a full minute, glaring out at the road. Finally he glanced at Puck and cracked a smile. "Well," he said finally, "we did manage to scrounge up enough money to settle your ridiculous debt. Without getting arrested or harassed by less than lawful debt collectors... I suppose I can't be too mad at you for rescuing me from a couple of high school bullies."

"What about your brother?" Puck asked when they passed the sign that said 'You are now leaving Lima'. "You didn't take as long as I thought you would."

"He wasn't home. I left him a note," Kurt said, and if Puck didn't know him so well he'd think the other man sounded sort of wistful. "And my phone number. He'll probably call later."

"And you'll tell him...?"

"That I went to go pay my debt."

The van falls into momentary silence. Puck sips his coffee and thinks about all the shit they'll have to go through next. Paying back MacGrady, finding a new place to set up and a new game to run. For a moment he even thinks about Sue, the lonely old spinster bitch who'll probably wind up even more lonely and bitter after tomorrow. He reaches forward and turns on the radio, settles in to a soundtrack of country rock while Kurt rolls his eyes and pretends not to know any of the lyrics. His knuckles throb and he smirks to himself.

This right here? He wouldn't trade this for the world.

.

* * *

.

Will Schuester spent the better part of Friday afternoon staring at his phone. He glanced at it between sentences as he spoke to his classes, kept it on top of his desk or in his pocket where he'd know if it rang. Eventually school ended, he went home, and he had to concede that he wouldn't be getting a call.

He breathed a small sigh of relief, forgetting to listen to Terri as she rattled on about some customer or other at Sheets'n'Things. She didn't seem to notice anything different or unusual about his behaviour. At least not until after they were in bed, tangled in the sheets, sticky with sweat after making love for the first time in a month.

"What's gotten into you?" Terri asked, still a little out of breath. "You've been acting so different these past couple of weeks. Especially this week. Has something been going on at work? Something I should know about?"

"Terri..." Will stopped, letting a long and pregnant pause overtake the room. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't tell her about Kurt, about falling into a trap set by a sixteen year old and then giving away a quarter of his annual earnings to keep the boy's mouth shut. Just telling her about kissing one of his students would be too much, without even mentioning the 'boy' part or the money. "No," he said finally. "No, there's nothing."

He spent the weekend in a state of nervousness, half convinced that he'd be receiving some kind of mysterious correspondence asking for more money. That was what blackmailers did on TV, right? He couldn't help remembering some of the crime shows he'd watched and thinking about how the blackmailers on those shows never just went away.

The strange feeling in the pit of his stomach persisted until Monday morning when he arrived at McKinley High. He was expecting to see Kurt, he realised. Waiting for the boy to show even after the implication that he wouldn't be around on Monday. Will hid in his classroom before school began, fearful that if he set foot in the staff room Emma would know something was wrong. He went through his first few classes in a blur until finally he was faced with the attendance sheet with the name Kurt Hummel printed neatly in plain Arial typeface. He called the names without looking up and was relieved beyond measure when Kurt didn't answer.

The sense of relief was almost overwhelming, but Will reminded himself that just because Kurt wasn't in today that didn't mean he'd left the school. Further investigation was required.

Will took his lunch in the teacher's lounge only because he knew it would be ridiculous to eat his sandwich and cookies at his desk. He took a seat at his usual table, flanked by Coach Tanaka and opposite Emma. It took him a minute after sitting down to realise why the lounge seemed so quiet.

"Hey, where's Sue?" Will asked, looking around to see if he could spot a tracksuit lurking in the corners somewhere for a sneak attack on some unsuspecting victim. "Isn't she normally breathing fire at someone this time of day?"

"Mm, Sue's not in today," Emma replies, carefully polishing her seedless green grapes before eating them one by one. "It must be serious, it's her first day off in over two years. Mr. Ryerson isn't in today either."

"He got fired," Coach Tanaka stated, nodding because they'd all known very well it was only a matter of time.

Will could tell from the way Emma was pursing her lips that she clearly thought it should have been sooner. "Fired?" Will repeated.

"For inappropriateness with a student," the coach confirmed, eyebrows raised.

Will didn't know what made him do it, or why in the world he thought it was a good idea, but for some reason he just blurted out; "With Kurt Hummel?"

"No," Emma replied, her unsettlingly wide-eyed gaze on Will's face. "With Hank Saunders, who has now switched to a private school with a very qualified psychologist on staff. Why? Will, is there something you know about Sandy and Kurt?"

"No." Will shook his head, physically leaning away from the table as if it would put distance between himself and the past few weeks. "No. I just assumed, you know, since you asked me to step in..."

"Oh. Well. No. I don't believe Kurt was ever, um, touched inappropriately by Mr. Ryerson."

"Uh, that's good." Will looked down at his sandwich. The atmosphere suddenly felt awkward but he didn't know how to break the tension. The truth was that now he was thinking about it he couldn't help but wonder if Kurt had done something like this to Ryerson as well. Or started to. It's possible he'd been forced to switch targets when Will had stepped into the picture.

And now he was thinking of a high school student like he was a criminal mastermind. God. He needed to get this off his mind. He needed some kind of reassurance that Kurt was gone for good.

The only way he could think of to make absolutely certain was to check with the school administration. That was how Will found himself at the office looking up Kurt Hummel's file on the school's system. According to school records Kurt was still enrolled. His emergency contact was listed as Burt Hummel, with no relationship specified. Will scribbled down the number before he left and waited until he was alone to call.

The line rang until a voicemail service picked up, announcing that he'd reached Burt Hummel's home line. Will hung up.

He called again after school with the same result and hung up again without leaving a message.

He'd given up, thinking that he was being paranoid, when an hour later his phone rang, Burt Hummel's number flashing up on the screen. Will cleared his throat and answered with his most polite hello.

"Hey," the man on the other end of the line said, "I got a couple of blank messages from this number so I figured I'd call and see if it was something important. If you're a telemarketer you'd better tell me now so I can just hang up."

"My name is Will Schuester," Will replied, surreptitiously checking that nobody was around to hear him despite the fact that he was alone at his apartment and Terri had yet to come home from work. "I'm your son's Spanish teacher. He wasn't in school today so I thought I'd call to make sure everything was alright."

It sounded weak to him, a stupid excuse that was probably more than a little suspicious.

Burt Hummel's reply sounded sarcastic; "My son?"

"Kurt Hummel...?"

"Kurt Hummel isn't my son," Burt replied dryly, "and he left for California on Saturday. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you but he's not going to be around for that language scholarship thing."

Belatedly Will remembered that he'd sent a letter about that a couple of weeks ago. Back when he'd thought Kurt was just an innocent boy who needed a good male role model. But that wasn't the important part there. "Kurt's not your son?"

"No," Burt said, and by now he was starting to sound annoyed. "He's definitely not my son. Kurt Hummel is thirty years old and has a gambling addiction which he only just revealed to me last week. He also told me he's been hiding out at your school pretending to be sixteen so his bookie doesn't find him and break his legs."

"He's thirty years old," Will repeated, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he realised that if he'd known then he wouldn't have had to pay him anything at all. A pause. "He's gone?"

"This Saturday."

"Ok. Uh, sorry to bother you at home."

"Don't mention it. Just make sure the school stops sending me mail. I'm getting sick of finding the McKinley gazette in my letterbox."

"I'll get on that," Will assured him. He hung up without saying goodbye, still feeling that sense of disbelief. He'd been played. Right from the beginning. There was a sense of shame to it, like he should have known, should have guessed that something was wrong. He shouldn't have let himself be drawn into the situation at all.

The only good thing, he thought to himself, was that Kurt was gone and Terri would never find out.

He could forget about it and move on.

Just like it had never happened.

END


End file.
